


Headlong

by GrumpyGhostOwl



Series: Battle of the Planets: 2163 [26]
Category: Battle of the Planets, Kagaku Ninja Tai Gatchaman & Related Fandoms
Genre: Footnotes, Garden Gnomes, Gun Violence, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Other, Snark, Things-fall-down-go-"Boom!", Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 04:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10586235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyGhostOwl/pseuds/GrumpyGhostOwl
Summary: The Intergalactic Federation of Peaceful Planets mounts an attack on Planet Urgos... using politics.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS  
> Thank you to Katblu42 for beta reading. Any mistakes from here on in are mine and mine alone. (There are bound to be some.) Thank you to Shayron and Wyldkat for technical advice about big scary guns.
> 
> PREVIOUSLY IN THIS STORY ARC  
> In 'Hostilities,' (a reworking of the BotP episode Ace from Outer Space) Captain Doo-ooom from the ‘hostile’ Planet Urgos (as described by Zark) attacked an air show where Mark was demonstrating the ISO’s new ‘starship’ the XF-97 (designed by Zark, who had no qualms about blowing his own trumpet over it.) The mysterious Captain Doom used indestructible whip weapons made of some kind of applied Phlebotinum, hereinafter known as ‘urgosium’ (hey, it beats, ‘whisker’ and at least it sounds like it could sneak onto the Periodic Table as long as nobody was looking) to slice the XF-97 into bits and to shear the tailfin clean off the Phoenix (and by extension, the G-1!) This annoyed rather a lot of people, some of whom had access to some rather unpleasant weapons of their own.
> 
> Captain Doom and his crew lost their families as an unintended consequence of G-Force’s retaliatory strike on the Hostile Planet Urgos, which had Doom flying off into a foreboding Tatsunoko sunset swearing vengeance.
> 
> In 'Crusades,' Chief Anderson investigated his older brother’s apparent demise on Planet Gaia, only to discover that the remains which had been returned to Earth fifteen or so years earlier had been cloned tissue. James Anderson had apparently run afoul of an extremist right-wing group of Gaians who attempted to murder him, but he escaped and disappeared. Chief Anderson then noticed that a lot of the senior members of said right-wing group had died under mysterious circumstances over the years, and all the deaths were connected somehow to the mysterious Captain Doom.
> 
> I guess we’ll never see him again.

  
  
  
**_Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?_ – Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds? (Virgil)**  
  
_In the animal kingdom, you are predator, or you are prey. Some animals are both. It all depends, not only on how well you are armed, but how much attitude you have and who else is around at the time. You can be the right species and possess the requisite number of teeth, talons and other adaptations, but without that unique self-awareness, that innate and undefinable quality that belongs to those destined to take their rightful place at the perilous apex of the food chain, you’re almost certain to die before your first birthday. Even when still cute (and frequently fluffy) as babies, real predators have a way of holding themselves. There’s a certain tilt to the head, a unique light in the eyes that marks particular individuals out as natural born killers.  
  
Human beings like to think we’ve evolved, but when you get down to it, it’s still the same old story: you are predator, or you are prey.  
  
Particularly in the realm of interplanetary politics._

  
  
  
“All planets are afflicted with _rogues_ ,” the Urgosian Ambassador declared, sniffing and rising on his toes to emphasise the last word. Of the two gestures, the sniff was the more impressive, as the Ambassador was endowed with an extremely long and narrow nose. “Captain Doom is quite correctly described as a space _pirate_ ,” he continued, with that little rise up onto his toes again at the word, ‘pirate.’ His dark, severely tailored evening wear made his already angular frame seem taller and thinner than ever. “He runs his piracy operation _entirely_ without the sanction of the _recognised_ government.”  
  
Security Chief David Anderson interpreted this statement as meaning that Captain Doom operated with the sanction of _un_ recognised areas of the Urgosian government. Which, to the best of the Security Chief’s not-inconsiderable knowledge, was indeed the case. “How unfortunate,” Anderson remarked, “that the recognised government seems to be incapable of apprehending this pirate.” He smiled, all urbanity, as the Urgosian bristled.  
  
The big mezzanine foyer of the Center City Opera House was thick with the _après opéra_ crowd following a charity performance of _Madame Butterfly_ by the highly lauded Zarkadian Opera Company. Anderson, who tolerated opera in very small doses (preferably while walking briskly in any direction that might reasonably constitute “away”) maintained that he attended because of the chance to have constructive informal discussions like the one in which he was engaged with the Urgosian Ambassador. The other, more pressing reason for Anderson’s presence was that the First Lady got decidedly tetchy when senior officials declined too many of her charity invitations. Presented with the choice between having to spend an evening listening to opera at five hundred dollars a seat or deal with a tetchy First Lady... well, one only needed to look around to spot quite a few senior Federal officials all wearing the same desperate, glassy-eyed expression of relief that the fat lady had, quite literally, sung.  
  
“Doom is a _persistent_ and _well-resourced_ criminal,” the Ambassador was saying, bobbing up and down. “Urgos is a _barely_ unified planet. You cannot expect us to be able to _duplicate_ your _extensive_ infrastructure overnight.” He sniffed again. “We are _doing_ all we can, under remarkably _pressing_ circumstances. Doom’s _weaponry_ is most _formidable._ ”  
  
“Extremely,” Anderson agreed. “It may be that the Interplanetary Security Organisation can assist you in taking care of that particular problem.”  
  
The Ambassador came close to choking on his champagne. “My dear Security Chief,” he babbled, “you are most generous, but we could not _possibly_ ask you to spread the Federation’s precious resources thin in such a manner! We’re very _grateful_ to you for your interception of several of Doom’s privateers over the last few months but we understand that _Spectra_ must be a _priority_ for you.” In his distress, the Ambassador quite forgot to bob and sniff, but the tips of his ears went pink.  
  
“Not at all, Mister Ambassador,” Anderson assured him. “Captain Doom represents a threat to any number of worlds, including Earth. Until his unprovoked attack on us back in ‘sixty-one, we were –- I’m sorry to say –- prepared to stand back and do nothing, but his activities have become a matter of grave concern to us. Our analyses suggest that Doom’s depredations have the potential to impact on certain critical lines of supply, so I’m inclined to extend the hand of friendship and assist Planet Urgos’ _recognised_ government in removing him from the picture. With extreme prejudice.” Anderson gave the diplomat what might have passed for a pleasant smile.  [1]  
  
“You... you realise... your _offer –_ although _exceedingly_ generous – could not _possibly_ be accepted by the Urgosian government,” the Ambassador said, breaking out in a sweat. “There are certain _cultural_ mores – the matter of saving face. For an _outsider_ to deal with such a persistent problem would cause all kinds of _internal political trouble_!”  
  
“You need not concern yourself with your internal political situation, Mister Ambassador,” Anderson insisted, “my agency is more than capable of discretion in these matters, particularly when the issue is of such mutual and significant interest to both our governments. I have people who are very good at organising plausible deniability. Just ask any conspiracy theorist.”  
  
The Urgosian went pale. President Kane had noticed the Ambassador’s discomfiture and swept in to the rescue. “Your Excellency!” Kane boomed. “Did you enjoy the performance?”  
  
“Ah, Mister President. It was quite _novel_ ,” the Ambassador related, recovering himself enough for a small bob. “I confess I have no understanding of Earth languages other than Standard, but the music was interesting.”  
  
“It’s all Greek to me, Mister Ambassador,” Anderson lied, feigning innocence.  
  
“My dear Ambassador,” Laureli Kane, the First Lady, took the Ambassador’s arm. “You mustn’t let David confuse you.” She bestowed a dazzling smile on the Urgosian. “He’s a very confusing man, you know, always focussing on technicalities. He pretends not to understand opera, but did you know his grandmother was a lead soprano with the Boston Galactic? She’s here tonight with the opera company, actually. You must let me introduce you. I promise she’s nothing like her grandson!” With a poisonous look at Anderson, she guided her guest away.  
  
“And we were getting along so well,” Anderson quipped.  
  
“David,” Alexander Kane warned, “maybe I neglected to mention that we’re trying to patch up relations with Planet Urgos, not start another war!”  
  
A waiter proffered cups of black coffee on a tray while another followed with the cream and sugar. Kane accepted a cup, as did Anderson.  
  
The President lowered his voice to a growl. “We’ve barely managed to smooth things over after the Patrol ‘liberated’ that last cargo shipment. Don’t provoke them any further!”  
  
“Of course, Mister President,” the Security Chief said.  
  
Kane shook his head and stalked away, shadowed by his ever-present security detail.  
  
Anderson glanced at his liaison and protocol officer, who waited patiently nearby, observing her Chief of Staff at work. This evening, she had, in Anderson’s opinion, gone above and beyond the call of duty by occupying the seat between himself and the First Lady in the President’s box for the duration of _Madame Butterfly_. Lieutenant Colonel Alberta Jones, unobtrusive in a grey silk trouser suit, allowed herself a small, wry smile.  
  
“Something amusing you, Colonel?” Anderson asked once the President was safely out of earshot.  
  
“Merely speculating, sir,” Jones said.  
  
“About?” Anderson prompted.  
  
“Something the Ambassador said: all planets have their rogues.” Jones arched an eyebrow. “Who is ours, do you think?”  
  
Anderson raised his cup and smiled. “That depends on who you ask,” he parried, and took a tentative sip of his coffee. Coffee could be a hit and miss affair, even at functions like this one. Still, no matter what the state of the coffee at the Center City Opera House on any given night, it couldn’t be as bad as the stuff Jones made back at the office on those rare occasions when she decided to demonstrate how it should never, under any circumstances, _ever_ be done.  
  
This particular cup of coffee didn’t taste as though it had died, or that anything had died in it, which was a good start. Anderson recalled the second worst cup of coffee he’d ever had, which had been encountered on a mission to Planet Riga, about twenty-two years previously. Anderson and Marshall Hawking had been on a mission with Rigan intelligence. In an attempt to impress their Rigan liaison, a rather attractive young female captain, Hawking had volunteered to make the coffee around a tiny campfire in a cave. Distracted, Hawking had let the coffee burn. It definitely made an impression, but not the one Hawking had been aiming for. Still, he must have done something right: Anderson had spent the night huddled in his coat outside the cave with a hip flask of whisky to keep himself warm, while Hawking and the liaison officer had kept each other warm inside the cave. Anderson had told Mark how his parents met but he deliberately left out a lot of the detail.  
  
The very worst cup of coffee was anything made by Lieutenant Colonel Jones. Anderson was fairly certain that Jones made bad coffee on purpose. He felt sure that nobody could be so abysmal at something, so consistently, without intent. He’d considered asking, but never did. It would take away the mystery. Anderson felt that everyone ought to have at least one unsolved mystery in their life, and as mysteries went, the substance he’d dubbed _Café La Brea Tar Pit_ seemed innocuous enough. As long as he wasn’t being asked to actually drink it.  
  
Jones declined a waiter’s offer of coffee. A tea drinker, Jones was one of those individuals who believed that almost anything could be coped with if one were adequately braced with a jolly decent cup of tea. It was a simplistic philosophy, but it was one that had worked for the English – and indeed all of the British peoples – for centuries and it wasn’t about to give up the ghost now. The tea coping mechanism applied across classes, continents and interstellar space. Wherever the British ventured, tea went with them.  
  
A life punctuated with rather a lot of tea had left the Englishwoman Jones magnificently repressed with an unfortunate tendency to use words like “jolly” rather more than necessary. A career with Galaxy Security had allowed her to be repressed, highly trained and armed with the finest, jolliest conventional weapons available.  
  
“The Urgosian delegation’s formed a rather worried-looking little huddle,” Jones murmured. “You’ve really put them between a rock and a hard place, you know.”  
  
“Then it’s been a productive evening,” Anderson decided. “I wonder how long it’ll take?”  
  
“Your methods aren’t exactly in keeping with the Kane Administration’s policies of inclusion and overt non-belligerence,” Jones said. “Give it four days.”  
  
“Three if I did a really good job.” Anderson allowed himself a moment to survey the room. “What an evening: Puccini, the First Lady and the Urgosians.” He finished his coffee and put the empty cup on a tray carried by a passing waiter. He offered Jones an arm, which she took, and they began walking slowly toward the exit, flanked by a pair of security officers who silently materialised out of the crowd.  
  
“It could have been worse, you know,” Jones pointed out mildly.  
  
“How?” Anderson asked.  
  
“Could have been Wagner, the First Lady and the Urgosians.”  
  
“Al, that’s just disturbing,” Anderson decided.  
  
  
  
  
Two and a half days later, President Kane was pleased to receive a delegation from the Urgosian Embassy wishing to open negotiations with a view to pursuing a non-aggression pact with the Federation. By Friday, the news media was full of speculation as to what this new development might mean for the war.

 

 

The security staff had waved the red convertible through the front gate of Anderson’s residence in response to Zark’s signal. Mark brought his car to a halt in the driveway, shut down the engine and vaulted out of the driver’s seat without bothering to use the car door. He ran up to the front door of the house, keyed the access code and let himself in.  
  
Anderson was in his study, standing by the window with a cup of coffee in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. Mark pulled up short as he realised he was the third, rather than the second person in the room. The formidable Sorcha Anderson was ensconced in an armchair.  
  
The Anderson matriarch was a marvel at ninety-seven years of age. When her son and daughter-in-law had been assassinated forty-three years ago, she had taken over the raising of her grandsons James and David. Sorcha scoffed at the idea that the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world: she maintained that neither of the boys had ever listened to her.  
  
In actuality, they had. At length. Then they’d gone on to make their own decisions using the same bloody-minded ‘sod you’ kind of independence they’d learned (and no doubt inherited) from Sorcha Anderson.  
  
Sorcha was the one woman who could, out of the habit of decades, make Security Chief Anderson sit up and do as he was told, or make him squirm like a twelve-year-old boy who has forgotten to take out the garbage. She had a similar effect on the members of G-Force.  
  
“Hello, Mark,” she said.  
  
“Grandma Sorcha!” Mark said, and obediently went over to kiss his adoptive great-grandmother’s cheek. “I didn’t know you were in town!”  
  
“I flew over for _Madame Butterfly_. I’ve been mentoring several of the Zarkadian Opera Company singers since Zarkadia decided to join the Federation. Part of a cultural exchange programme. It’s nice to see you, dear.”  
  
“Likewise,” Mark said.  
  
“I thought Saturday was your day for doing as little as possible,” Anderson said.  
  
“It is, but what’s this I hear about a non-aggression pact with Planet Urgos?” Mark asked.  
  
“I haven’t had the 3V on. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve heard?” Anderson suggested.  
  
“It was on GNN,” Mark said. “They’re saying you’re involved in brokering some kind of deal. Dad, they _attacked_ us, remember?”  
  
Anderson considered his coffee cup. “They haven’t come at us directly since you destroyed Captain Doom’s urgosium refinery back in ‘sixty-one.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean they like us. Why are you suddenly pushing for a non-aggression pact?”  
  
“Mark, Captain Doom hasn’t been hiding under a rock. He’s been focusing on interstellar shipping and he’s causing significant economic damage.”  
  
“So, we’re going to cut some kind of a deal with these people? With _space pirates_?”  
  
“No, we’re going to cut some kind of a deal with the _government_ of Urgos which continually claims to have no control over the space pirates,” Anderson corrected.  
  
“The difference being?”  
  
“Urgos has little in the way of regular armed forces. If we can manoeuvre the Urgosian government into a corner, they’ll have no choice but to disavow the privateers. Without his power base and support network, Captain Doom’s operation is as good as crippled. Deprived of the proceeds of piracy, the Urgosian economy will weaken and the Federation gets to call the shots.”  
  
“As in, they’ll be in a position where they’ll be willing to sell us the only supply of indestructible urgosium in the known galaxy?”  
  
“The thought had occurred to me,” Anderson said, and sipped at his coffee.  
  
“What about Zoltar?” Mark asked.  
  
“I’m pretty sure he watches GNN, too. By now, he knows what’s happening, and he’ll be very unhappy about it, you can count on that.”  
  
“You think he’ll try gunning for you again?”  
  
“Possibly,” Anderson said. “Director Kelly’s keeping an eye on the market to see if the price on my head goes up. It’s more likely that Spectra will target the Urgosians.”  
  
“All the same,” Mark cautioned, “you should up your security.”  
  
“It’s in hand,” Anderson said, his expression darkening.  
  
Mark smiled. “Al read you the riot act, didn’t she?”  
  
Anderson squared his shoulders. “No member of my staff,” he said, “would dare read me the riot act.”  
  
“Right.” Mark kept his expression neutral. “So, are we on alert for this?”  
  
“Not yet,” Anderson said. “Our counter-intelligence people think that the most dangerous time is going to be the actual signing of the pact, assuming we get that far. Zoltar’s a drama queen. He likes to make his messages public wherever possible, and it’s his style to go for maximum impact.”  
  
“No argument, there,” Mark said.  
  
“Enough talk of all this violence and political upheaval!” Sorcha Anderson declared. “Honestly. You boys! I’m flying back to Boston tomorrow. I expect to see all of you children this evening for dinner. We’ll go to Giuseppe’s since your father’s still hopeless at anything to do with kitchens except setting them on fire. Seven o’clock. Tell the others.”  
  
“Yes, Grandma Sorcha,” Mark said. He cast a pleading glance at his adoptive father, who simply shrugged, helpless in the face of an irresistible force.  
  
  
  
  
ISO Powell Base was just outside of Center City. Unlike Seahorse Base on the bay which catered primarily to marine and light air transport, Powell had the room to cater to heavy air transport and military star ships. Its sprawling complex included permanent accommodation for ISO personnel and hangars that would have dwarfed the G-Force command ship _Phoenix_.  
  
The sun was still low on the horizon as the working week began, the watery early morning light casting long cool shadows as the Chief of Galaxy Security’s limousine approached one of many near-identical weatherboard bungalows in what was effectively a suburb of the base. The residential sector was neat and tidy with quietly respectable lawns and a limited colour palette which suggested government contract painters.  
  
The particular bungalow at which Chief Anderson’s limousine had stopped was distinguished by the garden gnomes. Security Chief Anderson peered over the top of his sunglasses. Standard Operating Procedure specified that he wasn’t supposed to put the window down on the limousine but given his location – to wit, in the middle of a secure ISO base – he decided it was worth the risk.  
  
A gnome in camouflage aimed a tiny assault rifle with a _very_ realistic finish to the barrel while another in sixteenth century garb hefted a ceramic barrel of gunpowder. Another one wore a twentieth century khaki uniform with stars on its shoulders and a corncob pipe in its mouth. Still another appeared to be sporting G‑Force battle gear in seasonal Christmas red and green. Anderson squinted slightly. Yes, it had bells on.  
  
Anderson’s attention was diverted from the garden gnomes when the car window began to rise. Anderson glanced across at his security coordinator, who was sitting directly opposite him and had her finger firmly on the control button.  
  
When Major Alban released the button and sat back in her seat, Anderson pressed the button to lower the window again. Major Alban bristled. Anderson made a point of ignoring her.  
  
The front door of the house opened to allow Alberta Jones to exit. Jones locked the door behind her and hurried off the porch and down the garden path with a quick patter of heels on the pavement. “Why is your window open?” she asked. “Your window isn’t supposed to be open. Major Alban, you’ll have to lock those if he’s going to keep playing with them.”  
  
Jones walked around to the other side of the limousine, opened the door, climbed inside and pulled the door shut behind her. The automatic locks clicked into place and the window motor whirred softly as the armoured glass slid closed.  
  
“Good morning to you, too,” Anderson said, ignoring the attempts of Major Alban and Captain Maxwell to refrain from smirking.  
  
The vehicle pulled away from the kerb and headed down the quiet residential street with all its windows firmly shut.  
  
“Not that I ever really gave it any thought,” Anderson said, “but if I had, I doubt I’d ever have pictured you as the type to have garden gnomes.”  
  
“The one with the rifle shoots point-one-seven calibre bullets,” Jones said. “Guy Fawkes has an EMP generator in the gunpowder barrel and General MacArthur’s pipe is actually a very powerful scanning device. They’re one of Zark’s little side projects. He asked if he could use my garden as a testing ground and I said he could.”  
  
“I think I’m genuinely sorry I brought it up,” Anderson said.  
  
The limousine made its way out of the residential area and passed through two checkpoints before moving onto the apron and making its way to a compound. There was one last checkpoint before the limo drove up to park in front of a well-guarded hangar.  
  
There were already about a dozen vehicles in the area set aside for parking. On the apron outside the compound, a distinctive blue and red warship was parked, her auxiliary power unit idling noisily in what might otherwise have been early morning quiet.  
  
“They start work early here,” Shay Alban observed.  
  
“Yes they do,” Anderson said as the group got out of the limousine.  
  
The turbine in the _Phoenix_ ’s APU wound down with a descending whine and the dorsal dome of the G‑Force command ship unfolded to release Mark, Jason, Princess, Tiny and Keyop, who glided down to the tarmac and joined the Security Chief’s party.  
  
“Morning, Chief,” Mark said, striding over to the limousine. “Here we are, all present and correct.”  
  
“I appreciate you coming out here so early,” Anderson told the team. “I think you’re going to find this interesting.”  
  
Each member of the group was required to submit to a retina scan before the somewhat overawed duty officer opened the door and waved them through.  
  
The lobby was simply an empty room lined with brushed steel with a door at each end. Anderson keyed an access code, pressed his thumb to a pad and waited for the interior door to open with a buzz and the rapid clunks of heavy lock tumblers giving way.  
  
The hangar itself was a large vaulted space with little prefabricated office modules arranged around the walls.  
  
In the middle of the hangar was a segment from a captured Spectran ship. Its antigravity drive had been repaired, as had its force field generator and it hung in the air approximately six feet off the hangar floor in apparent defiance of natural law. Said defiance was expressed by way of a soft hum and a complete and utter lack of falling down and going ‘boom!’  
  
“Wow,” Jason said. “That is one ugly piece of machinery. Isn’t it part of the Space Serpent that attacked those refineries a while back?”  
  
“It was,” Anderson said. “Now it’s a lab rat. Doctor Patterson!” he called. “How’s progress?”  
  
“Chief Anderson!” the project head hurried over. A middle-aged engineer of Native American extraction, Essie Patterson wore a respectably shabby lab coat with lots of tiny burn marks and a perpetually harried expression. “We’ve been testing out a few things, sir but the laws of physics are still getting in the way.”  
  
“Show me,” Anderson said.  
  
Patterson led the group over to a large work station manned by several technicians. “Coffee break, guys,” she ordered and the staff got up and walked away, casting backward glances at their visitors as they did so. “Here’s the thing,” Patterson said as she called up a large holographic display of the ship segment. A grid in the shape of a sphere surrounded it, representing the force field. “The modified G-Force style cable guns were a good idea in theory, but once you get down to brass tacks, they just bounce clean off the force field.” Patterson gestured at the display and it moved, showing technicians firing cables at it which simply bounced and slid off the sphere. “Conceivably, if you knew which frequencies the force field was utilizing you could rig up an electronic grapple which locked onto the wavelength and hung on like a limpet, but what’s to stop Zoltar from modulating the frequency? Modulation’s a standard defence against beam weapons and field neutralisers.” A wave of Patterson’s hand had the image shifting again. “So we tried netting it, and it works, but only to a degree.” The hologram showed a large metallic net being dropped over the force field and remaining in position as technicians anchored it to the floor.  
  
Princess leaned forward to examine the display. “You’re working with urgosium alloy! So this is what happened to it. You’re developing an anti-force-field device, Doctor?”  
  
“We’re _trying_ , ma’am,” Patterson said.  
  
“I see some limited application there,” Anderson remarked.  
  
“Very limited,” Patterson said. “If you can convince Zoltar to fly conveniently close to the ground, then sit back and watch while our people hook the net in place, you could possibly neutralise yourself one very small enemy ship. One. Very small. Then you have to be in a spot where you can hook the net up to something that can drain the power. I mean, if you could earth it, or plug the ship into the city’s power grid with a bunch of stacked conditioning modules to keep from blowing up every office machine on Main Street, you could earth the field’s electromagnetic current and drain it dry. Otherwise you’ve gotta have something you can connect up, say some kind of remote controlled flying Tesla coil or something that could draw enough power to knock the thing out. I’m thinking maybe sacrificial drones could do it, but to be honest with you, Chief, I can’t see a lot of practicality here. It’s small scale only. If you let me shrink it down some I could hand you a great anti-android or small drone countermeasure within a couple months. Knock down anything up to the size of a double-decker bus.”  
  
“Send an interim report through to Director Halloran,” Anderson said. “I’ll take your suggestions under consideration.”  
  
Anderson walked out onto the hangar floor. A long bundle of thick silvery cables connecting up to a central net was neatly laid out over a series of workbenches that had been pushed together to accommodate its size. He picked up one of the cables which moved with a silky hiss, very much like a very large and very expensive slinky toy.  
  
Patterson followed and patted one of the cables as though it were a cat. “It’s something, isn’t it?” she remarked. “Light, flexible and damned near indestructible. I don’t suppose you could be liberating any more of the raw material any time soon.”  
  
“If things go according to plan,” Anderson said, “I may even be able to buy you some.”  
  
“It’s all I want for Christmas, Chief,” Patterson said with a grin. “And for that Zark guy to quit stalking me online.”  
  
Anderson sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”  
  
  
  
  
It was a beautiful morning at the imperial palace on Planet Spectra, but environmental aesthetics were wasted on Zoltar, who was – as Chief Anderson had predicted – in an extremely bad mood.  
  
Zoltar’s staff had retreated to various hiding places throughout the palace, or better yet, found errands to run that took them off the grounds.  
  
Mala alone remained with Spectra’s penultimate ruler as he paced up and down the length of the balcony, his morning cup of tea cooling unregarded on the table.  
  
“After all we have done for those spineless Urgosian ingrates!” Zoltar raged. “This cowardly betrayal cuts me to the very quick! Do you know how much funding we sank into their space piracy operations?”  
  
Mala, whose job it was to know – among other things – exactly how much funding had been sunk into supporting Urgosian space piracy, lit a cigarette and inhaled before answering. “I do. Down to the nearest thousand dragei,” she replied, her words punctuated with smoke. There was a fresh breeze coming off the mountains which swept the smoke away almost instantly.  
  
“We trained their miserable personnel –- we even gave them surplus uniforms with which to clothe their wretched men! How do they repay us? First, they try to beat us to the conquest of Earth, then, once they think themselves forgiven for their presumption, they go crawling to the Earthlings, bleating for a non-aggression pact!”  
  
“Turncoats,” Mala agreed.  
  
Zoltar turned on his heel, all excess energy, and gripped the safety railing on the balustrade with both hands. “They are afraid of the Federation,” he snarled, and bared his teeth into the breeze. “I will show them what it means to be afraid!”  
  
“You could do that,” Mala said. Something in her tone made Zoltar stop and look over his shoulder, his anger in abeyance for the moment.  
  
“Is this one of those times when you are thinking more clearly than I?” he inquired.  
  
“Perhaps,” Mala said. “The ISO may well be counting on Spectra investing resources in a retaliatory attack on Urgos. Resources,” she qualified, “that we could be using against the Federation.”  
  
Zoltar turned away from the balustrade to study his sister through eyes that narrowed behind the mask. He folded his arms across his chest and considered. “That is a distinct possibility,” he said. “And yet, I cannot allow Urgos to escape unscathed. The Galaxy must see what it means to invoke the wrath of Planet Spectra! The Urgosians _must_ be punished, both decisively and visibly! “  
  
“Their leaders, at least,” Mala said.  
  
“What did you have in mind?” Zoltar asked.  
  
Mala smiled and exhaled in a long thin stream of bluish smoke that was snatched up and carried off by the wind. “Efficiency, brother dear.”  
  
  
  
  
“Do we really need to know all this?” Tiny asked as Zark’s briefing continued into its thirty-sixth minute.  
  
The G-Force team were seated around the table in Conference Room 3 on the 100 th floor of the ISO Tower. The room was large enough for small, intimate meetings and Mark was convinced that the chairs were designed to keep said meetings short. This seemed to be lost on 7-Zark-7, who was transmitting from Center Neptune Control and lacked the ability to sit down.  
  
“Maybe we could get the _Reader’s Digest_ version?” Jason quipped.  
  
Mark, whose gluteus muscles were beginning to go numb, decided to take advantage of his team-mates’ restlessness and got to his feet. “Okay, Zark, can we take a break? The humans need a comfort stop.”  
  
_“Certainly, Commander,”_ the robot replied. _“Signal me when you’re ready to resume.”_  
  
The screen image changed from Zark’s electronic visage to dark blue with the Galaxy Security crest rendered in 3D silver.  
  
By mutual and unspoken agreement, all five members of G-Force stood and stretched. Mark stamped his feet a few times while Jason moved to the window and gazed out over Center City.  
  
“Do you think we could ask him to stick to the executive summary?” Jason wondered aloud as he rotated his shoulders.  
  
“Jason,” Mark said wearily, “this _is_ the executive summary. Zark’s full briefing notes are… well let me put it this way: if I were to print the entire document, I’d have the deaths of rainforests on my conscience.”  
  
“And that would be bad,” Keyop said sagely.  
  
“Yes,” Mark said. “That would be bad.”  
  
Jason made a small, helpless sound that might have fallen somewhere between a groan and a scream.  
  
“Okay,” Princess said. “To summarise: the Urgosian government, who we thought were our enemies, are now saying it wasn’t them who attacked Earth in ‘sixty-one but this pirate Captain Doom, who is in fact a criminal whose activities are unsanctioned.”  
  
“Which they never bothered to tell us back in ‘sixty-one,” Keyop added.  
  
“And now,” Princess continued, “the Urgosian government wants to make nice with the Federation, but they don’t want to go so far as to become an Allied World, so they’re just going to sign a non-aggression pact.”  
  
“Which means,” Jason said, “that good ol’ Captain I’ve-got-a-really-ugly-mask Doom is out in the cold, which in turn means that Zoltar could lose a valuable line of supply.”  
  
“Which means Zoltar’s not gonna be happy,” Tiny said. “Which means he’s gonna want to spread it around.”  
  
“Captain Doom won’t be happy either,” Mark said. “We’ll have two enemies gunning for us at once.”  
  
“And this is progress toward peace, right?” Keyop said.  
  
“Apparently,” Mark said. “Yay for peace.”  
  
“I get the feeling,” Jason said darkly, “that peace could be going to get awfully noisy.”  
  
“Look on the bright side,” Princess said. “At least we’ll have an excuse to avoid any more family dinners with Grandma Sorcha for a while.”  
  
“Please don’t remind me,” Jason said. “I don’t need any more of her lectures about ‘facing up to who I am.’ How come she never pesters _you_ about finding out who your father was?”  
  
Princess laughed. “Probably because I’d have to interrogate every DNA database in the galaxy to maybe get a possible match, while all you’d have to do would be to read your birth certificate! I don’t know, Jase. Maybe she’s got a point. My mother never cared enough to name my father – either that or she genuinely didn’t know. Your mother loved your father, even if he did leave in the end. What they had for a while has to be worth something.”  
  
“No,” Jason said. “No, it isn’t worth a thing.”  
  
“Wrong,” Princess said, aiming a mock punch at Jason’s arm. “It resulted in _you_ , and you’re worth the whole world to the people who care about you. Don’t sell yourself short.”  
  
  
  
  
President Alexander Kane leaned forward in the big chair. He glowered at the file which lay open on his desk as though it had personally and deliberately offended him.  
  
The file was marked, ‘TOP SECRET: G-SEC EXECUTIVE AND ABOVE EYES ONLY.’ In smaller print down one side it read, ‘Anderson, James Lachlann.’ The word, ‘Deceased’ had been covered over but was still faintly visible through the tape. A second file was labelled ‘Captain Doom of Urgos.’  
  
Kane’s affronted glare moved from the file to one of the men sitting opposite him. “How much of this is personal, Anderson?” he asked.  
  
Secretary Claybourne, who was seated in one of the visitor’s chairs in the Presidential Office, coughed into his hand.  
  
Kane was dismissive. “There’s a time for tact, Stan,” he said, “and this isn’t it. Well, Anderson?”  
  
In the second visitor’s chair, Security Chief Anderson was effectively caught between his two superiors. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t personal, sir,” he admitted, “but we have sound operational reasons for pursuing this course of action.”  
  
“I know that,” Kane snapped. “If we didn’t have sound operational reasons you’d be on administrative leave pending a review of your job. What I need to hear from you is that you’ve got it compartmentalised and that you won’t let personal considerations get in the way of completing your mission.”  
  
“My personal feelings,” Anderson said, “are in line with our mission objectives. Captain Doom is a G‑Sec operative gone rogue with a long list of crimes and misdemeanours to his name and I mean to bring him in; alive, if possible.”  
  
“And if you can’t bring him in alive?” Claybourne asked. “He’s your brother, David.”  
  
“Then we neutralize him, Mister Secretary. I’ll pull the trigger myself if I have to.”  
  
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Claybourne said. “I’d feel better about this if you took a step back. It’s too much to ask.”  
  
“No,” Kane said. “No, Anderson, you keep working on it. Make sure Deputy Chief Galbraith’s there to ride shotgun. You say you can handle this and… well, I’ve seen you work under intense personal pressure before. I’m inclined to trust you.” Kane stood up and his visitors did likewise. “Don’t make me regret it.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

  1. Pleasant if you were, in the first place, a long way away from it, and in the second place, confident of your likelihood to remain so for quite some time. [2]


  1. At least until Chief Anderson was in a better mood. If he was already in a good mood, an extended trip away would be a good idea. Preferably one that involved a well-appointed ship with an ongoing mission to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life, and boldly go as far away from Security Chief Anderson as possible.




	2. Chapter 2

**_Veritati aliquid extremum est, error immensus est_ – Truth has bounds, but error is endless (Seneca)**

  

_When animals live in groups, there is usually an alpha. The alpha is generally the largest, strongest, cleverest male, although in some species, it’s the largest, strongest cleverest female (and in one species of fish it’s the largest, strongest female who changes her sex to become a male, but that’s another story altogether) or there may be one of each. In any event, in the vast majority of cases, the alpha male gets to be (and remain) the alpha male by thumping the snot out of any other male who looks like he might be getting aspirations. His rewards are varied, but usually involve mating rights with the female or females of his choice.  
  
Human beings like to think we’ve evolved, but when you get down to it, the only real difference appears to be that impressing the female is more complicated. The twenty-second century alpha male may well be told by his female counterpart that what he really needs to do to win her over is join a yoga class.  
  
But this is by no means a foregone conclusion.  
  
In the realm of interplanetary politics, it’s usually a case of thumping the snot out of political opponents, corporations or foreign governments. There is not always a thumping in actuality. More often it’s the suggestion that a thumping could well exist _ in potentia _.  
  
Either way, someone is probably going to get the snot thumped out of them at some point._

  
  
  
  
“Well?” Security Chief Anderson demanded as his liaison and protocol officer exited the elevator on the executive level of the ISO Tower.  
  
“I’m fine, thank you,” Lieutenant Colonel Jones said as she walked through the lobby toward Gunnery Sergeant McAllister’s desk while Anderson overtook her with his longer stride. “The traffic was appalling and I could murder a cup of tea.”  
  
“On it, sirs,” McAllister said, and headed for the kitchen area.  
  
“Why didn’t you take my calls?” Anderson asked.  
  
“I was driving!” Jones said. She breezed into Anderson’s office, bypassed the visitors’ chairs and the big desk, headed straight for the sofa and fell into it, dumping her coat and purse on the cushion beside her as she did so. “There was an accident on the freeway and I didn’t need the distraction.”  
  
“Well you’re here now,” Anderson pointed out. He paced restlessly up and down in front of the window.  
  
“Would you please sit down?” Jones asked.  
  
“Would you please tell me how the meeting went?” Anderson countered, but he did take a seat on the other sofa.  
  
“It was actually quite productive. The Urgosian delegate nearly had a heart attack when I offered up your suggestion that we could assist him in keeping piracy under control by asking the Space Patrol to garrison a squadron on Urgela. Then Colonel Madison pointed out that we’d never actually _occupy_ a friendly planet’s territory. In the end, they agreed to allow regular patrols in the space lanes.”  
  
“That’s a relief,” Anderson said. “I wouldn’t like to have to tell Admiral Nagarajan that we’d agreed to deploy Patrol resources in enemy territory.”  
  
“The good bit is that they’re beginning to waver as far as their support for the piracy operation’s concerned. They can’t come out and admit that they sponsor Captain Doom’s activities but the language is starting to change. I think they’re on the verge of disowning their pet corsairs on the basis that we make bad friends but worse enemies.”  
  
“Then it’s all going exactly as we planned!” Anderson was out of his seat, driven by pure energy. “Al, this could be a turning point for the war effort.”  
  
“I hope so, sir. Having the planet attacked with giant monster ships is starting to get a bit tiresome.”  
  
“Sirs?” Gunny McAllister entered the office with two large steaming mugs. He handed one to Anderson and the other to Jones.  
  
“Thanks, Gunny, you’re a saint,” Jones said.  
  
“Sorry we’re out of lemons, ma’am,” McAllister said.  
  
“Worse things happen at sea,” Jones said, waving away the apology.  
  
Anderson frowned as McAllister returned to his own desk. “ _Worse things happen at sea_? What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Worse things _do_ happen at sea,” Jones reasoned, “although historically, if you think back to the days of sail, running out of lemons usually meant an outbreak of scurvy.”  
  
“I swear, Al, some days you make my brain hurt!” Anderson grumbled.  
  
“And this is why you don’t get to attend these negotiations,” Jones said. “You have all the tact of an asteroid impact!”  
  
“Al, you know I’m not good at delegating…”  
  
“Oh, do you think so?” Jones took a sip of her tea. “It’s all coming together, David. Troy Madison is one of the ISO’s best negotiators and he’s winning them over. We’ll get the Urgosian Convocation of Peers on-side and Captain Doom will find himself without a friendly port unless Zoltar decides to take him in, and if that happens, I have it on good authority that the commute from the Crab Nebula’s a bitch.”  
  
“From there, it’s only a matter of time before Zoltar starts experiencing supply problems,” Anderson said. “Al, this has to work.”  
  
“I know. I also know that Zoltar has a vested interest in it _not_ working, and he’s going to put the blame fairly and squarely on _you_.”  
  
  
  
  
Agent S-9 pulled the curtains aside and considered the view over Center City. Her three companions were busy behind her. Emerald was running the hand-held scanner over every item of furniture and fixture in the hotel room while Garnet and Citrine unpacked the suitcases. The suite was an expensive one, but it overlooked Federation Square, which as far as S-9 was concerned was its best feature.  
  
Out in the square were a couple of vans in GalaxyTel livery which had disgorged a team of technicians who were working on something in a pit surrounded by safety cones. Two of them were arguing and waving clipboards at each other. Idly, S-9 wondered whether it would come to blows.  
  
Garnet laid out clean clothes while Emerald began scanning the bathroom. “Will you freshen up before dinner, Madame?” Garnet asked.  
  
“Yes,” S-9 said. “We will all visit a local restaurant, I think. Then tomorrow we will play at being tourists.”  
  
“Very good, Madame,” Garnet said.  
  
S-9 turned her full attention to her subordinates as Emerald returned from the bathroom. “All clear, Madame,” Emerald said.  
  
“Thank you, Emerald,” S-9 said, bestowing a smile upon the senior Galaxy Girl. “Well, Citrine. Your first off-world mission. Are you ready?”  
  
“Yes, Madame!” the young woman with short, spiky blonde hair was unable to suppress her eagerness. “I won’t let you down!”  
  
“Good. You may all go to your rooms and freshen up. Meet back here in two hours and we shall mingle with the Earthlings for the evening.”  
  
Dismissed, the three women left.  
  
As S-9’s second, Emerald had a room adjoining the commander’s suite while Garnet and Citrine shared an adjacent room of their own. Garnet had hoped to be appointed S-9’s deputy and found Citrine’s excitement on top of being overlooked in favour of Emerald grated on her nerves even more than usual.  
  
“I can hardly wait to see the city!” the young woman declared as they shut the door of the main suite behind them. “It’s such an honour to be assigned –-”  
  
Citrine nearly stumbled as Garnet rounded on her. “Silence!” Garnet hissed. The older woman hurried to the hotel room they had been assigned and unlocked the door. She shoved Citrine in ahead of her and locked the door behind them. “Idiot!” she snarled. “You do not speak openly of our purpose here! Not ever! You could put the entire mission at risk! Hold your tongue. Speak when you are spoken to and maintain your cover at all times. Did you not understand this the first time you were told?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Garnet.” Citrine hung her head. “I got carried away. It won’t happen again, I promise.”  
  
“Spirit save us from young fools!” Garnet grumbled. “Unpack the bags,” she ordered. “I am going to take a shower.”  
  
  
  
  
“I’m going to tell him,” David Anderson said, addressing the image on his office tele-comm screen.  
  
“ _About time_ ,” Sorcha Anderson grumbled. “ _So, what’s brought this on?_ ”  
  
“A review of the files,” Anderson lied, praying that his grandmother wouldn’t pick up on it. “There’s going to be some information coming to light about some of James’ less orthodox behaviour and forewarned is forearmed. He needs to know.” This last, at least, was true.  
  
_“I should say so! You’ve indulged this ridiculous, mule-headed nonsense for almost two decades! You should have told him from the start!”_  
  
“I respected his mother’s wishes at the time,” Anderson said.  
  
_“His mother!”_ Sorcha’s snort of contempt was at odds with her elegant bearing. _“I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but his mother was a sentimental fool!”  
_  
“Unlike mine,” Anderson couldn’t help saying.  
  
_“Yours was ruthless enough that she put her entire family in danger. For once I’d like a member of this family to bring home someone normal!”_  
  
“This from the diva herself,” Anderson said. “Gran, just go easy, will you? There’ll be questions, and I’d really appreciate it if you could hold off on the recriminations, or at least direct them at me.”  
  
_“Oh, don’t worry, David,”_ Sorcha Anderson said. _“I’ll be addressing any recriminations straight to you! Speaking of which, I suppose this non-aggression pact with Planet Urgos is going to make you dangerous to be around?”_  
  
“My security staff have matters in hand. Don’t worry. Now I really have to go. I have a lot of work to do.”  
  
_“All right. Take care, David. I’ll wait for your next call.”_  
  
Anderson closed the channel and took a deep breath, then let it out again. The two files, the one bearing his brother’s name and the other marked ‘Captain Doom of Urgos,’ were lying on his desk. He tucked James’ file into Doom’s folder and carefully put them away in a locked drawer on the left side of his desk.  
  
7-Zark-7 had made a number of surveillance files available on Anderson’s desktop and the Security Chief selected one that was time stamped from that morning. He entered the ‘play’ command and settled in to watch it.  
  
The file had run approximately half its length when movement in the doorway caught Anderson’s eye.  
  
“Seriously?” Alberta Jones asked, leaning against the door frame. “You’re watching Zark’s surveillance feed of this morning’s meeting?”  
  
“How do you know what I’m watching?” Anderson hedged, pausing the feed.  
  
“Because you’ve got the audio turned up. I was there and I know what was said. That was my voice, just then.”  
  
“It’s important that I stay in the loop,” Anderson said.  
  
“It’s important that you stop obsessing,” Jones parried. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”  
  
“You’re still here,” Anderson pointed out. He deliberately didn’t look at his wristwatch but the clock on the computer screen read 19:25.  
  
“That’s because I’m catching up on all the extra work I’ve got. Work which you gave me, I might add. For heaven’s sake, will you pack it in?”  
  
“Al…”  
  
“You worked late last night and the night before. You promised Mark you wouldn’t do this. _I_ promised Mark that I wouldn’t _let_ you do this.”  
  
“Since when do you _let_ me do anything, Lieutenant Colonel?”  
  
“Oh, so it’s rank-pulling time, is it, _General in Chief_? Well, that does it!” Jones strode into the office, walked behind Anderson’s desk and shut his computer down without asking. She unplugged his palm unit, pressed it into his hand and stepped back, giving him room to rise up out of his chair like the wrath of an ancient god of bureaucrats.  
  
“Did you just –?”  
  
“Yes. I did. And now I’m going to do something else.”  
  
Anderson shot a wary look at his liaison officer. “What, exactly?”  
  
“Feed you.” She turned to look out of the office doorway. “All set are we, Shay?”  
  
“Ready to hit the road!” Major Shay Alban declared. She was standing in the lobby with Lieutenant Fran Patrick, the other officer on duty for Anderson’s protection detail.  
  
“This is some kind of conspiracy, isn’t it?” Anderson deduced.  
  
“Well done, you,” Jones said. “Don’t forget your coat.”  
  
“Why do I let you get away with this?” Anderson wondered aloud as he retrieved his coat and headed for the elevator.  
  
“Best not to think about it,” Jones advised.  
  
Anderson put his coat on while the elevator plummeted toward the basement car park. For reasons he couldn’t really fathom, the women on his staff seemed to have decided that he was Exhibit A: _Male, helpless_. For the most part they allowed him to continue with his comfortable bachelor existence but every now and again one of them – usually Jones – would decide that he needed some kind of assistance, usually something to do with vitamins or sleep, and pack him off like an errant schoolboy. He knew he could put a stop to it any time he liked. In fact, he _ought_ to put a stop to it… but there was that promise he’d made to Mark about taking better care of himself and not working too hard… And really it was Mark and the others who were behind it all. They’d managed to convince Colonel Jones that she needed to enforce the agreement he’d made with the children and damn it all if she hadn’t gone and done it!  
  
But he could put a stop to it any time he liked. Really, he could.  
  
The elevator stopped and Major Alban checked that the area was clear before the group exited the car and headed for the armoured limousine.  
  
Alban got into the driver’s seat. “Curtin’s, right?” she said.  
  
“Yes,” Jones said as Lieutenant Patrick opened the rear passenger door and ushered their Chief of Staff into the vehicle. “I’ve booked a table.”  
  
  
  
  
Curtin’s Bar and Grill had a number of private booths reserved for regular customers who didn’t wish to be disturbed at their meals and the Galaxy Security party was politely shown to one of them. Shay Alban’s razor-sharp gaze swept the restaurant, on the lookout for any and all potential threats. Connor the waiter was quiet and efficient as usual, seating his guests before hurrying back with menus, a carafe of iced water and a tray of chilled glasses. He set out water, glasses and menus with his customary courtesy. “Please let me know when you’d like to order,” he said.  
  
“Thanks, we will,” Alban said with a dismissive nod.  
  
Anderson perused his menu while Jones poured water into the glasses. The menu hadn’t changed from the last time he’d been here. Or even the time before that, or the time before that. Curtin’s cooked good steaks and stuck to what they knew. Any regular customer at Curtin’s would be hard-pressed to come down with anaemia.  The vegetarian options skulked in embarrassment on the second-to-last page. The staff at Curtin’s would respect the choices of others but would prefer that they chose to dine elsewhere.  
  
  
  
  
Within the confines of another booth further inside the restaurant were four other diners who also desired privacy: “Meat,” Emerald murmured as she scanned the menu, her voice low enough that only S-9 could hear it. “In such quantities! The decadence of it.”  
  
“Smile,” S-9 whispered. “Act as though there is nothing unusual about it. This is how these people live.”  
  
“Of course, Madame,” Emerald said.  
  
Citrine was staring at the menu, wide-eyed.  
  
Garnet laid a warning hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Let us visit the ladies’ room,” she said.  
  
Emerald shook her head as the two junior members of the team left the table. “Citrine is very young,” she said quietly.  
  
“We all earn our spurs some time,” S-9 muttered, “but you may be right about that one. She is too eager to prove herself.”  
  
“Perhaps I should take her in hand,” Emerald said.  
  
“That may be wise,” S-9 agreed. “You have more experience than Garnet. Citrine can sleep on the floor in your room. It will instil some discipline.”  
  
Citrine washed her hands at the marble basin with its gold-coloured fittings and let her breath out in a huff, still smarting from the dressing-down Garnet had just given her about not giving herself away with her behaviour. The older woman was still in the toilet stall and Citrine decided to head back to the table without her. The thing that stung the most was that Garnet had been right: Citrine had been gawking in wonder at her surroundings.   
  
Earth was such a strange and decadent place! All the same, the young Spectran was determined that she could maintain her composure and return to the table without drawing attention to herself like an ill-mannered bumpkin. A Galaxy Girl was supposed to be at home anywhere, but this planet with its riches was nothing like the bleak country manse where Citrine and her siblings had grown up. _The mask_ , her instructors had told her, _is not always a physical one. Your true mask comes from within._ It had all seemed so much easier back home on Spectra where Citrine had her friends and her fellow trainees. Citrine had been at the top of her class in everything, praised by her instructors and admired by her peers. Here, Agent S‑9 and Emerald were cold and distant, while Garnet was openly hostile. Citrine had never felt quite so alone. She took a deep breath and tried to centre herself. She would show the others that she was worthy to be part of the team.  
  
Citrine left the basin and pushed the restroom door open. She scanned the interior of the restaurant the way she’d been trained and froze for a second in the doorway. There, partially hidden behind a slatted partition which she hadn’t seen when Garnet had hustled her into the restroom, were two female uniformed Galaxy Security officers and a couple in civilian business attire. The woman was quietly elegant with her ash blonde hair swept back in a neat roll and the man… the man was recognisable from bulletins and news reports as Security Chief David Anderson, one of the great enemies of Spectra.  
  
Citrine’s heart thumped as adrenaline surged through her veins. Anderson was one of the Galaxy Girls’ primary targets for this operation, and while the plan was to take him out in a show of force along with the Urgosians at the signing of the non-aggression pact, opportunities like this didn’t come up every day. Anderson had escaped so many times, Citrine knew that she couldn’t pass up the chance to take him down. She would make Garnet eat her words and S-9 would finally give her the praise she deserved! Citrine drew her knife from the hidden sheath in her sleeve, held it out of sight against her forearm and slowly, stealthily moved toward Anderson’s table.  
  
She moved without making a sound, stalking her prey like a jungle cat. A waiter edged past her and a laughing man narrowly missed spilling his drink on her. Citrine ignored them all as her combat training took over, focusing only on her target.  
  
The blonde woman glanced up and made eye contact. Citrine saw a flash of alarm cross the woman’s face and saw the taller of the two uniformed officers react to it by twisting in her seat to locate the cause. On the periphery of her vision, Citrine was aware of the second officer – a brunette who looked to be the same age as Citrine herself – reaching for a gun as she moved to put herself between Anderson and the perceived threat. Citrine lunged forward with the knife, only to have the tall red-headed woman vault upward from a sitting position to brace one foot on the floor, balance one hand on the back of her seat and deliver a roundhouse kick. Citrine ducked and dodged easily, ignoring the screams of the diners and the crash of crockery and glassware as panicky civilians upended their meals in their haste to get away.  
  
Citrine stepped in and slashed at her opponent with the knife. The red-head didn’t flinch and the knife made a clean cut in the midnight blue broadcloth of her uniform, but skittered off hidden body armour underneath the Earth woman’s shirt. Citrine pulled the knife free and was gathering herself to jump onto the table when she heard a sharp voice call out, “ _Shay!_ _Down!_ ” The tall woman dropped to the floor and Citrine saw the blonde, now on her feet with one hand to her hair. Citrine leapt, pushing herself upward as the other woman’s upraised hand moved in a lightning-fast flick of bright metal. Citrine batted the knife away as it flew at her. From below, hands grabbed at her and hauled her downward, spoiling the leap. Citrine regained her balance, pulled free and kicked out, forcing the red-head to dodge backward.  
  
Citrine cursed under her breath. She was now further away from her target and both the blonde and the red-head were between her and the table while the brunette stayed with Anderson. The dark-haired girl was brandishing a side-arm but it would be difficult to get a clear shot without hitting a civilian or one of her own people.  
  
The blonde had another knife in her right hand and moved in for a strike, which Citrine blocked easily. The women exchanged a few parries before Citrine managed to catch the blonde’s wrist and squeeze – hard. The woman snarled and let go of the knife but before Citrine could savour her victory, a hand grabbed her hair and pulled her head backward while her feet were kicked out from under her. The blonde’s knee came up and caught her chin in a vicious blow that made her teeth click as pain blossomed through her jaw.  
  
Citrine was forced to her knees, presumably by the red-head who had hold of her from behind and her arms were forced behind her back.  
  
The distinctive click of a safety catch being released sounded preternaturally loud and Citrine looked up through a haze of pain into the muzzle of a pistol. The blonde woman was standing over her, glaring at her out of cold pale eyes. Citrine took a breath to spit defiance at the woman but a wave of dizziness washed over her and the world began to blur.  
  
A silent explosion seemed to go off behind her eyes and her vision dissolved into white light as all sensation faded.  
  
Citrine went limp and sagged to the floor, her final breath flowing out of her lungs in a sigh.  
  
Sirens sounded as police vehicles poured into the street, responding to emergency calls from diners and staff.  
  
In the restaurant parking lot, S-9, Emerald and Garnet slipped away from the crowd of frightened diners and gathering onlookers. They kept to the shadows and headed for the relative safety of an alleyway. S-9 pocketed the small remote control she had been holding. “You understand,” she said, “that we could not allow Citrine to be taken alive.”  
  
“Of course, Madame,” Emerald said. “She was a liability.”  
  
“She was a fool,” Garnet growled.  
  
  
  
  
The restaurant had been cleared and David Anderson bent over the body of the would-be assassin. The girl had been in her late teens or early twenties with bright golden hair and grey eyes which were now staring fixedly and without focus through wide and unseeing pupils. Two trickles of blood had pooled in the contours of her earlobes and were darkening as they congealed.  
  
A wickedly curved and notched knife had been retrieved from the floor and there was a red cat’s-head emblem pinned inside the lapel of the girl’s jacket.  
  
“Spectra,” Jones said from where she stood beside Anderson, her voice flat.  
  
“So much for a relaxing evening,” Anderson couldn’t resist saying.  
  
“Next time I’m making you a sandwich,” Jones retorted as Shay Alban found the silver throwing knives that the blonde girl had knocked aside and handed them back to their owner. Jones took the knives and fished in her purse for a compact in order to return the weapons safely to the sheathes hidden in her hair.  
  
“Al?” Anderson said.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You just fought a Spectran assassin with _hairpins._ ”  
  
“Customised throwing knives,” Jones explained. “Shay gets them from a weaponsmith on Planet Riga. Safer than letting off a firearm in a crowded restaurant full of civilians.”  
  
“I know, but still –”  
  
“Let me through!” a familiar voice demanded and the G-Force Commander in full battle gear shoved through the police officers to reach his foster-father. “What happened here?” Mark demanded. “Zark told me someone attacked you with a knife!”  
  
“That’s pretty much what would have happened,” Anderson said, “if my security detail hadn’t intercepted the young lady.”  
  
“For heaven’s sake, is this some kind of circus?” another voice cried. “Medical officer! Coming through!”  
  
Colonel Jones turned to greet Dr Kate Halloran, Galaxy Security’s Chief Medical Officer. “Since when do you collect cadavers, Doctor?” Jones murmured.  
  
“Bob and I were at Amano’s and Zark told us there’d been an attack,” Halloran murmured back. “The ME’s van should be here in a minute or two.” Halloran crouched down and studied the pale, still face of the fallen Spectran. “What happened, Al?”  
  
“The girl came toward us. She seemed unusually focussed. Shay intercepted. We teamed up on her, Shay brought her down and she died on the floor, right then and there.”  
  
“Neural disruptor, most likely,” Kate Halloran said with a sigh. “Just lately we’ve been getting reports of Galaxy Girls being fitted with failsafe implants. If they’re captured, or try to defect, their handler can take them out remotely by triggering a massive cerebral accident. Zoltar’s dear little sister is even more ruthless than her brother, and the scary part is she’s supposed to be the sane one in the family.” The Chief Medical Officer stood and put her hands on her hips. “Shay? Are you all right? Your uniform’s all cut up!”  
  
“That’s all it is,” Alban said. “I was wearing body armour. Knife slid right off it. This stuff might be the galaxy’s _un_ -sexiest underwear but I wouldn’t swap it for anything!”  
  
  
  
  
The man who styled himself Captain Doom stood in the grand entry hall with his cloak thrown back over one shoulder despite the winter chill. Governor Arish’s butler bowed with genuine respect and straightened. “Honoured Sir, the Governor awaits. Please follow me.”  
  
“Lead the way, Birn,” Doom said. He followed the butler into the Governor’s private study, the kind of indulgently leather-furnished room favoured by powerful men the whole galaxy over. As with so many rooms of this kind, there were trophies on the walls and books on the shelves.  
  
The Governor himself stood by the fire, a silver goblet in one hand. His thick mane of white hair framed a dark brown face creased with age and experience. “My thanks, Birn,” Ven Arish said.  
  
Both the Governor and the pirate waited for the butler to leave and close the door behind him.  
  
Doom inclined his head. “Honoured Lord, I came hence with all speed when I received your message.”  
  
The Governor took a small device from his pocket and activated it. “Let us speak Standard,” Arish said in English. “The jammer is quite reliable, but you know I like to take precautions against ears of flesh as well as the electronic kind.”  
  
“Very well,” Doom said in the same tongue, his accent softer than that of the Governor.  
  
“Let us sit,” Arish said. “Let me pour you some mulled wine.”  
  
“Yes,” Doom said. He settled into an arm chair and removed his mask. His features were lean and emphatically drawn yet curiously un-weathered, suggestive of a man in his mid-thirties. The grey in his auburn hair and the shadows in the deep-set violet eyes suggested that ‘mid-thirties’ might not be an accurate assessment.  
  
“My boy, I have received disturbing news,” Arish said. “Our Ambassador on Earth has delivered a report to the Convocation of Peers and the resultant mood is a dangerous one.”  
  
“We’re to be attacked?” Doom inferred, accepting the cup of wine Arish handed him.  
  
“Nothing so overt,” Arish said, grimacing. He sat down in the chair next to his visitor. “We are to be _helped_ , it seems.”  
  
Doom took a swallow of wine. “You speak in riddles, my friend.”  
  
“You are aware that in our dealings with the Federation, the Convocation has always claimed that you operate outside official sanction.”  
  
“They can’t do otherwise,” Doom agreed. “It’s a time-honoured custom among both our peoples, Arish, to disavow all knowledge of piracy whilst reaping its benefits.” He met the older man’s gaze. “Am I to be thrown to the wolves, then?”  
  
“It would seem so,” Arish said. “The ISO is threatening to station a Cosmic Patrol squadron on Urgela to help us control our ‘rogue’ problem.”  
  
“Urgela!” Doom’s calm was shaken.  
  
“They know the location of your base, Ishmael,” Arish said. “It is a grave matter.”  
  
“Will Spectra not come to our aid?”  
  
“The Convocation fears that Zoltar will make good on his threat that he will leave us to the Federation after you had the presumption to try and claim Earth for Urgos.”  
  
“Cowards! So they’ll cut me loose after all. Ha!” Doom shook his head.  
  
“You have been like a son to me,” Arish said, “so I will help you. I have already tried to lobby on your behalf, but my voice is one of too few to sway the Convocation. Tonight, the Delegate for Interplanetary Affairs will table a motion that Urgos sign a non-aggression pact with the Federation. It will be approved and Magister Irillie Terel will take a ship to Earth to seal the pact. One of the conditions of that pact is that you and your organisation will be turned over to the ISO. I have had a private meeting with the Delegate for Warfare and was able to convince him that it would be unwise to hand you over too soon, as we must keep up the appearance of you being an uncontrollable recidivist. You will have some small window of opportunity to marshal your resources and escape.”  
  
“So it seems my pride in attacking Earth was my downfall, after all,” Doom said. “I feel I’ve let you down, Arish.”  
  
“Never,” Arish said. “I still remember how far you came from the lost, burned, amnesiac wreck I took aboard all those years ago. I still remember –- even if others do not –- the immense contribution you have made to Urgos! Ishmael, my boy, stay and finish your wine, reminisce with me one last time, then say your goodbyes to Grian. She will weep, for she is as fond of you as she is of our own children.”  
  
“You and Grian were always good to me, Arish. I was nothing –- a piece of jetsam, orphaned, abandoned and afraid. You took me in and made something of me again. I will always be grateful.”  
  
“I have some funds set aside –-” Arish began.  
  
“No. I won’t hear of it,” Doom said. “I have reserves of my own and if the Federation’s investigators find a financial link between us, it could make trouble for you. I’ll rest easier knowing that I won’t take you and your family down with me. It seems Security Chief Anderson has decided he wants my head. I wonder if he knows the truth?”  
  
Arish shook his head. “Who can say? Since the early days of the war, Galaxy Security and the ISO have grown strong and their operatives have been particularly active on Urgos of late. That you are an offworlder is widely known. Many people believe you are an Earthling, but others would have you a disgraced Spectran nobleman or a demon from the underworld!” Arish chuckled, then sobered again. “If he does know of your past identity, what does it mean?”  
  
“I can’t be sure,” Doom said. “It’s been a long time, Arish. He’s changed, but I know one thing that’s always been true of him: when he focuses on something, he doesn’t give up easily.”  
  
“Drink your wine,” Arish said. “Then we will go and find Grian. There is much work to be done if you are to make good your escape.”  
  
“And more still,” Doom said, “for me to make good my revenge.”  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**_Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito –_ Yield not to misfortunes, but advance all the more boldly against them (Roman proverb)**

 

_Not all predators inhabit the perilous apex of the food chain. Many have to keep an eye out for bigger animals which might decide to turn the hunter into the hunted. As such, successful predators often employ camouflage to conceal themselves not only from their prey but also from other predators who might wish to eat them.  
  
Human beings like to think we’ve evolved, but talk to anyone who has aspirations of the political or corporate stripe and you’ll see the food chain in action with teeth, claws and talons being deployed on a regular basis.  
  
In the realm of interplanetary politics, it is usually wise to keep everyone guessing as to your tooth, claw and talon complement, since a lot of the time you can’t be sure whether you are dealing with predator, prey or both.  
  
At some point there will be blood. Usually it’s figurative, but sometimes it’s literal._

  
  
  
  
Security Chief Anderson glanced up at the knock on his office door. “Yes?”  
  
Alberta Jones walked into the office carrying something draped over one arm. “Since it seems I can’t take you anywhere without someone trying to kill you,” she said in lieu of a greeting, “I’ve brought you something from the armourers.”  
  
“Armour?” Anderson echoed. “Al, I already have a vest –”  
  
“I know, and now you have this.” Jones held out a tan-coloured swathe of cloth.  
  
“Which is...?” Anderson prompted.  
  
Exasperated, Jones shook the cloth out to reveal a collar, long sleeves and matching lining. “It’s. A. Coat,” she said, enunciating her words very clearly as though to someone hard of hearing.  
  
Anderson leaned forward and responded in kind. “I. Already. Have. A. Coat,” he pointed out slowly.  
  
“Not with meta-aramid  [3] and nomex lining, you don’t,” Jones parried, going back to normal speech. “The meta-aramid layer –”  
  
“I know what it does.” Anderson leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers. “Tell me, Al, has anyone ever thought of introducing you to the concept of overkill?”  
  
“I remind you that you’re still breathing,” Jones said. “Despite, I may add, your own best efforts.”  
  
“How do I know it’ll fit?” Anderson challenged, trying a different tack.  
  
“I had Gunny take the measurements from your other coat.”  
  
There was another knock at the door, forestalling any further argument.  
  
“Yes?” Anderson called.  
  
“Hey, Chief.” Jason strode in. “Doctor Kate’s finishing up on that autopsy. She hasn’t logged the report yet but she’s confirmed the girl was one of Mala’s. She found the kill switch in the poor kid’s head.”  
  
“And this from the allegedly sane member of the family,” Anderson growled.  
  
Jason shook his head. “If this is the way they treat their own, how is it the Spectran people haven’t risen up and torn both Zoltar and Mala limb from limb?”  
  
“Fear,” Anderson said. “Look at our own history. The home nation is always the first one conquered.”  
  
Jason scowled and folded his arms. “The Galaxy Girls are in the wind. Zark tracked them back to the Federation Arms Hotel but they cleared out before our people got there. We’ve got bulletins out, but there’s no guarantee we’ll find them before they crawl out of the woodwork with intent again.”  
  
“Hence,” Jones put in, “the coat.”  
  
Jason’s gaze shifted to the garment in Jones’ hands. “Hey, cool,” he said. “May I?”  
  
“Of course,” Jones said.  
  
“Awesome!” Jason held the coat up at arm’s length. “Badass longcoat!”  
  
“What?” Anderson asked, bemused.  
  
“Badass longcoat,” Jason explained. “This coat is totally badass. Right colour and everything. I mean, if it’s black you look like a Nazi, but the long brown coat of badassery is just... _badass_. Can I get one of these, Al?”  
  
“I’m sure it can be arranged,” Jones said, carefully keeping a neutral tone of voice. “At least someone likes it,” she said to Anderson, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Have it your way,” Anderson said. “But if anyone uses the word ‘badass’ in my presence…”  
  
Jones laid one hand on her heart and turned what was probably intended to be an innocent look on her Chief of Staff. “I swear I’d never even heard the term in connection with this coat until Jason explained it just now.”  
  
“I know there must be a reason I like working with you,” Anderson said, “and one of these days, I’ll remember what it is.”  
  
“I’ll go and see about obtaining another coat in your size, sir,” Jones said to Jason, and left the office.  
  
“Jason,” Anderson said, sobering, “please close the door and take a seat.” He gathered up two files from his desk and stood up, gesturing for Jason to precede him.  
  
Jason complied and walked with Anderson to the two sofas near the window where G-Force sometimes had their briefings. “You’re not having second thoughts about this plan of Shay’s are you?” Jason asked. “I know it sounds a little screwy but it does make sense.”  
  
“I need to discuss something with you,” Anderson said. “Please sit.”  
  
Jason sat on the sofa opposite his mentor and frowned. “Sounds serious,” he said.  
  
“It is. Jason, I know you’ve repeatedly told me that you don’t want to know about your father, but circumstances have arisen where you need to be fully informed.”  
  
Jason took in the folders in Anderson’s grasp and his frown deepened. “It’s operational? How do you figure that?”  
  
“It’s a long story,” Anderson said, “I’ve always tried to respect your wishes, even when it was against my better judgement and the wishes of others, but we’re in a situation now where I don’t see any other choice.”  
  
“What?” Jason let his breath out in a snort. “My father’s dead and buried!”  
  
“For most of your life, I believed he was,” Anderson said. “What do you remember about your father?”  
  
“I try not to,” Jason said. “I mean, I _really_ try not to. Doctor McCall says I’ve done a pretty good job of repressing the memories. I make a conscious choice not to look at my birth certificate or any documentation that might have his name on it! I know he left Mom before I was born and I remember Mom being sad all the time. Any mention of the guy nearly always made her tear up or cry outright. I hated him for that.” Jason took a deep breath. “I know he was a G-Sec agent. I know he was… well, he was _supposedly_ killed on a mission…” Jason frowned, searching his memory.

  
“You were always angry about that,” Anderson said. “The first time we met, you were six years old and you told me your father was mean and stupid for going away.”  
  
“I remember,” Jason said. “I asked you if you were my father and you said you weren’t.”  
  
“That’s right,” Anderson said. “Do you remember what I told you?”  
  
“You said the two of you grew up together.” Jason tilted his head slightly and met Anderson’s gaze. “There’s another thing I remember, too. I remember Mom telling me you were family. I always told myself that by ‘family,’ she meant G-Sec agents sticking together, but it wasn’t that at all, was it? The day she died, at the hospital, you were listed as her next of kin.” Jason leaned his elbows on the desk and stared at the paperwork in front of him. “Mom was your sister-in-law.” He straightened up in his seat and met Anderson’s gaze. “My father was James Anderson. I should’ve seen it. We even have the same middle name!”  
  
“I think the only reason you never saw it was because you didn’t want to,” Anderson said gently.  
  
“Yeah. I guess so… Oh, no.” Jason groaned and buried his face in his hands.  
  
“It’s okay,” Anderson said. “I’m not going to try and hug you.”  
  
“It’s not that,” Jason said, his voice muffled by his hands. “It’s Grandma Sorcha! She’s gonna kill me!”  
  
“She’s not going to kill you,” Anderson said. “Not if you apologise, and maybe make a point of visiting at Christmas… maybe bring Lieutenant Patrick with you…”  
  
Jason sat slouched forward, hands dangling between his knees. “That’s a lot to take in.”  
  
“It gets worse,” Anderson said.  
  
“Worse than Grandma Sorcha?”  
  
“Hard as it may be to believe, I’m afraid it is. You remember our retaliatory strike on Urgos after Captain Doom attached the air show in ‘61?”  
  
“Sure. It isn’t the kind of thing you forget in a hurry. There was a lot of collateral damage that we weren’t made aware of until later. Gave me more than a few sleepless nights.”  
  
“You and me, both,” Anderson said. “That mission had far-reaching consequences, I’m afraid.”  
  
“So, what, are you going to tell me my father’s Captain Doom?” Jason quipped, but at the look on Anderson’s face he subsided. “No. No way!”  
  
“I wish there was an easy way to say it,” Anderson said, “but yes. Your father – my older brother – is Captain Doom.”  
  
“The galaxy is now officially crazy!” Jason declared. “So, what happened?” he asked. “How did James Anderson go from being a G-Sec field agent to a space pirate?”  
  
“James was one of Security Chief Conway’s most trusted field agents,” Anderson recounted. “Even though he’d sworn the same oath we all did, James always had a private agenda: to track down the Spectra assassins responsible for killing our parents. He and your mother were both working as field agents on Planet Hibernia when they entered into a relationship. While your mother was pregnant with you, your father was offered a transfer to Gaia where he hoped to uncover information about his own parents’ assassination. He’d had the transfer application in since he’d joined G-Sec and never cancelled it. He had a choice to make.”  
  
“I knew that last part,” Jason said. “He left us.”  
  
“Do you remember that terrorist group we crossed paths with on the Gaian mother world? The ones who call themselves Patriots?”  
  
“How could I forget?” Jason said wryly.  
  
“The evidence points to the Patriots being responsible for hiring the assassin who killed your grandparents. Jay was on the verge of exposing them when they found out what he was up to. There was a fight, an explosion and a fire. The authorities sent us what we thought were his remains.”  
  
“Didn’t you do an autopsy?”  
  
“Of course. The DNA was your father’s. One test we _didn’t_ run at the time was a Dinehart.”  
  
“A Dinehart test? The remains were _cloned_ tissue?”  
  
“Yes. I had the stored samples tested after I received new information on the case. All that time, I believed he was dead. If you’d asked me a year ago, the story would have ended there. I could have sent you out to kill your own father, all unknowing... I _did_ send you out to kill your own father.”  
  
“As I recall, he took a couple of pretty enthusiastic shots at killing me,” Jason pointed out in an attempt at levity, “and the rest of the team, too. I wouldn’t feel too badly about it if I were you.”  
  
“If I’d been more thorough, this would never have happened.”  
  
“But how did my father end up on Planet Urgos?”  
  
“After the Gaia mission, I was given a list of members of that Gaian right-wing group. A lot of the senior members were dead. Some had died of natural causes, but most of them had been killed while travelling between Commonwealth worlds. Nearly all of the attacks were attributed to Captain Doom.  When I looked closely at Doom’s MO, it was uncanny. His methods and his fighting style were damned near identical to my brother’s.  
“I had Zark analyse Captain Doom’s voice print and it returned a match. We were never able to obtain a DNA sample to confirm it, but it was enough for Intel Division to re-open the investigation into James’ death.  
“It turns out that James was seriously injured with severe burns when he ran afoul of the Patriots on Gaia. He’d also lost his memory. He was imprisoned for a long time, given basic medical care and kept alive in the hope that he’d remember enough to be useful to his captors. They needed to know how much the Federation knew about their activities and what our intentions were. When James eventually escaped, he still had no idea who he was or why he’d been a prisoner. He stole a ship and managed to make his way to the space shipping lanes, where he was taken in by an Urgosian privateer. He worked his passage to Urgos as a crew member and proved his worth. He stayed with them and slowly, his memory returned. He felt that he couldn’t return to G-Sec since he was now legally a criminal, so he decided to let us all keep on believing he was dead.”  
  
Jason tossed his head. “And you don’t want to send me out there to kill my father. Why couldn’t he just stay dead? Who does he think he is, Cronus?”  
  
“It does seem to be a recurring theme,” Anderson said.  
  
A thought occurred to Jason. “If James had no memory of who he was,” Jason said, “wouldn’t he have been able to get some kind of amnesty?”  
  
“Even when he was amnesiac,” Anderson said, “he would have known the difference between right and wrong. He’s acquired an extensive criminal record for piracy over the years. Under Federation law, he’ll be required to answer for it.”  
  
Jason raised his head and then let himself fall back into the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “Galaxy Security star agent to space pirate. That’s a heck of a career change.” He took a deep breath and let it go. “So, now I know the truth.”  
  
“Some of it,” Anderson said. “The part that concerns you, anyway. I don’t think any of us can ever know the whole truth about anything.”  
  
“Spare me the philosophy,” Jason said. He tilted his head a fraction. “What does he know about me?”  
  
“I couldn’t say,” Anderson confessed. “If he ever bothered to search for you, he would have known that I adopted you. Your identity as a member of G-Force is supposed to be a secret, but I’ve learned the hard way that some secrets have a way of escaping. He may know who you are, and he may not. I suspect he didn’t know when you went up against him last time. Jay always had a strong sense of family. The brother I knew would never have knowingly raised a hand against his own son. Bear in mind, however, that he isn’t the man I knew any more.”  
  
Jason merely nodded, staring into a middle distance at something only he could see.  
  
“Jason,” Anderson said, “you need to think carefully about whether you really want to go up against your father.”  
  
“No,” Jason corrected, “I don’t need to think about it at all. He’s a traitor and a criminal. He lost the right to make any kind of claim on me the day he walked out on my mother. Maybe you don’t have the stomach for it, but I can do this.”  
  
Anderson’s eyes narrowed slightly. “If you’re sure. I’m more worried about you and how you might feel after this is over than I am about Jay. He made his choices, but I don’t want you going after him alone. If anyone has to look him in the eye and pull the trigger, it should be me.”  
  
Jason thought for a moment. “You know what scares me? I think I know where you’re coming from. Cut it out, will you?”  
  
“All right,” Anderson said. “You can back out right up to the moment you engage, but if you do engage in combat with Captain Doom, you’re committed. Do you understand?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“And, Jason?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“As your commanding officer, Mark needs to know what’s going on with you. It’s up to you whether he hears it from you or from me. As to what you tell the rest of the team, I leave that up to you and Mark to decide.”  
  
Jason nodded “I understand. I’ll talk to Mark, but I’ll tell him he can see you if he’s got any questions.” He got up and walked away. “Man, my life’s turning into a soap opera,” he observed as he left the room.  
  
Anderson watched the door swing shut after his nephew. “ _Your_ life’s a soap opera?” he muttered to the empty room.  
  
  
  
  
Garnet stood at S-9’s side as Khurz bowed low before Lord Zoltar’s cousin. “My lady. I trust the accommodations are adequate?”  
  
S-9 smiled and nodded. “More than adequate. I am grateful to you.”  
  
“It is my honour to serve you,” Khurz said. “My men and I are at your disposal.”  
  
“Thank you,” S-9 said. “Garnet, would you be so good as to make some tea?”  
  
Garnet stiffened for a moment, then forced herself to relax. She was a Galaxy Girl, not a servant, but being a Galaxy Girl meant obeying orders. She would look on this as a test of her obedience. “Yes, Madame,” she said, and headed for the kitchen. After a few steps she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. “Perhaps Emerald could assist me?” she suggested. “We could prepare a meal.”  
  
“Splendid,” S-9 said. “Go on, Emerald.”  
  
Emerald smiled as though she were delighted at being relegated to the post of domestic help. “Of course, Madame.”  
  
Garnet was expecting the slap as the kitchen door closed behind Emerald, and was able to block it with one forearm. “What’s the matter, Emerald?” she said. “Don’t you like following orders?”  
  
“I will follow our lady’s orders to the death,” Emerald hissed. “I do not follow yours, you manipulative little bitch!”  
  
Garnet smiled. “I gave no order. I am merely here to make tea.”  
  
The kitchen was not particularly clean and Emerald took advantage of her seniority to order Garnet to do the cleaning while Emerald prepared food. Garnet went about the task with equanimity. Regardless of who gave the order, she would have ended up doing this now that Citrine was gone.  
  
Citrine… the little fool had cost them dearly with her impulsive attempt on Anderson’s life. The three surviving Spectrans had raced back to their hotel, collected their gear and made their escape even as Galaxy Security agents were calling at the front desk with descriptions and search warrants.  
  
Fortunately, Khurz and his sleeper group kept this safe house for contingencies and S-9 had led them to it without incident.  
  
Moving around Center City would be potentially more problematic now than it might otherwise have been. Galaxy Security would be on the lookout for three women and while they could disguise their faces with holographic masks and wear wigs over their hair, they could not completely hide their biometrics. In the wake of Citrine’s actions, security around the signing of the Urgosian non-aggression pact would now be tighter than ever. Garnet wondered what S-9 would do. Involving the men would mean a loss of face – especially since Khurz wasn’t even Spectran, but a conscript from Sigma Minor – but the stakes were high.  
  
Garnet sighed and scrubbed at a bit of burned-on grease on the stovetop. She had always known that this mission would be hard. Now it was going to be harder. Smiling and serving tea to a jumped-up Sigman was just going to be the soon-berry on the festival pudding.  
  
  
  
  
Keyop looked around the living room. The lounge suite was upholstered in some kind of cream-coloured chintzy fabric that featured pink cabbage roses. It matched the curtains and there was a lace doily on the coffee table underneath a vase of flowers that matched the antimacassars draped over the seat backs.  
  
“This is… um… nice?” he ventured. He didn’t dare sit on the actual sofa.  
  
“Are you sure about this?” Anderson asked for what seemed like the tenth time. He eyed the couch with some suspicion. It was the sort of couch that got referred to as a ‘settee,’ the sort of thing that someone with a malevolent little core of darkness in their soul might use to torture junior officers by making them sit on it while trying to juggle hats, teacups and vicious little plates of spiteful cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off… and then deliver the final sadistic _coup de grace_ by asking if anyone wanted sugar.  
  
“It’s safer than anything else we could think of,” Shay Alban said, for what was probably the eleventh time.  
  
Alberta Jones exited the master bedroom dragging a trolley case. “I’m cleared out,” she said. “The bed’s made up with fresh linen.”  
  
“I’ll take the guest room,” Anderson declared. “Princess can have your room.”  
  
“Fine by me,” Jones said. “Shay, did you set up the coffee maker?”  
  
“It’s good to go,” Alban said. “If coffee’s the worst of our worries, I’m fine with that.”  
  
“This is just… weird,” Anderson said.  
  
“We could have put you up at my apartment,” Alban said, “but overall, this is safer. You’ve got all of ISO Powell around you. We’re just lucky Al lives on base. The only other accommodation available at this kind of short notice was at ISO Seahorse and that’s too accessible. I don’t trust our safe houses in town for this either. This place is an unknown quantity as far as Spectra is concerned. Zoltar found you once before at Center Neptune and I wouldn’t put it past him to try again. They won’t be expecting anything like this. Just get over it, will you? Sir,” she added.  
  
“We’ll be fine,” Princess said. “Honestly.” She shouldered her duffel bag and made her way into Jones’ room.  
  
A moment later, a squeal had everyone on their feet.  
  
“Princess?” Anderson called. “Are you all right?”  
  
Princess reappeared clutching a dark green dress. “Al, can I borrow your clothes?”  
  
Jones closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with one hand. “Knock yourself out,” she sighed. She straightened and cast a baleful look at her Chief of Staff. “Please try not to kill my plants. All set, Shay?”  
  
“Okay,” Alban said. “We’re going. See you tomorrow. I’ve got Rossi and Bairstow on duty outside, and remember, no blowing up Al’s kitchen!”  
  
The security officers left and locked the front door behind them.  
  
“Keyop!” Princess called. “Get yourself squared away!”  
  
Keyop picked up his bag and ventured into the third bedroom. It was set up as a study but a sofa-bed had been made up for him and he dumped the bag on the floor. There wasn’t much to do in the way of unpacking so he decided to see if Anderson wanted any help.  
  
Anderson was in the next room and Keyop decided to try the mattress out for size. He bounced up and down a few times before noticing that there were a few items of clothing already in the wardrobe that Anderson had opened. “Does Al have a boyfriend?” he asked.  
  
“Her nephew stays here sometimes,” Anderson said, pushing a few hangars to one side. “He’s an interceptor pilot in the Space Patrol.”  
  
“Sounds cool,” Keyop said. “Do you need a hand with anything?”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Anderson said. “Why don’t you go check out the 3V or something?”  
  
“I’ll patrol the perimeter!” Keyop declared, puffing out his chest.  
  
“Be careful of Al’s plants,” Anderson cautioned. “And watch out for the garden gnomes. They’re Zark’s, so anything could happen.”  
  
“Sure.” Keyop tried a couple more bounces on the mattress, but it wasn’t particularly springy, so he vaulted off and headed out to explore.  
  
The house was one of many ageing but well-maintained weatherboard bungalows used as accommodation at ISO Powell Base. The exterior was painted in what Keyop tended to think of as government grey; the interior in neutrals which Keyop tended to think of as boring. Keyop ignored the bathroom (Princess would make him take a bath and brush his teeth soon enough as it was!) He bypassed the laundry and headed out onto the back porch where he stopped and stared. He had expected to see more of the rose bushes that grew in the front garden but instead found himself looking out at rows of vegetables in raised beds.  
  
“Wow,” Princess said from behind him. “I knew Al liked gardening but this is ridiculous.”  
  
“Do we have to do anything with this?” Keyop wondered aloud.  
  
“We’re only here for a few days,” Princess said. “We can leave it be. Al said the irrigation system was set on automatic.”  
  
“Why is all this stuff here?” Keyop asked.  
  
“The Van Allen Belt,” Princess said.  
  
“The Van Allen Belt?” Keyop echoed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”  
  
“When Zoltar lowered the Van Allen Belt, there was widespread crop failure,” Princess recalled. “If you ever came to the supermarket with me you’d know how expensive fresh produce is these days. It makes sense that if you know how to grow your own food, you do it. There’s a community garden here on base. It supplies the hospital and the school so that the people who need it most get fresh veggies.”  
  
“How do you know all this?” Keyop asked.  
  
“I hang out with the girls sometimes,” Princess said. “We could try setting up some planters on the roof at home if you want to give it a try. It could be educational. We could even get you a worm farm.”  
  
Keyop brightened. “A worm farm? What’s that?”  
  
“I… um… I think it’s like an ant farm, only… y’know… with worms?”  [4]  
  
“You’d let me have a worm farm?”  
  
“As long as I don’t have to touch the actual worms or see them or anything, _ever_. Yes, you can have a worm farm.”  
  
“Can you train worms to do tricks?”  
  
“No idea. I guess we’d better do a perimeter sweep. If we run into the neighbours, let me do the talking, okay?”  
  
  
  
  
Jason got out of the armoured limousine, adjusted the collar of the coveted badass longcoat so that it hid most of his lower face and nodded to the driver and the two security officers who accompanied him. The two lieutenants saluted and headed off to patrol the grounds. Jason hefted a briefcase in one hand, strode to the front door of the residence of the Chief of Galaxy Security, unlocked it and walked inside with barely a glance at the red convertible which was parked near the garage entrance. To a casual observer, particularly one who might have been observing from a distance, it looked as though Security Chief Anderson was home.  
  
Mark was waiting in the hall. “See anything suspicious, Jason?”  
  
“Not a thing.” Jason said. “Makes me wonder if that poor dumb kid was just making an attack of opportunity. Intel says Zoltar’s out to stop the signing of the non-aggression pact first and foremost.”  
  
“Agreed,” Mark said. “Still, we can’t be too careful.” He activated his wrist communicator. “Tiny, you got ears on?”  
  
“ _I hear you, Mark_ ,” Tiny Harper replied. “ _I’m circling the city with the scanners set to max sensitivity. I’m feeding terabytes of data through to Nerve Center and Zark’s analysis is coming up zip.”_  
  
“Understood, Tiny,” Mark said. “Just keep at it for a little while longer. Out.”  
  
“So I get to be Chief for a day,” Jason concluded. He slipped out of the long brown coat and folded it over one arm. He patted it absently.  
  
“Your obsession with that coat borders on the unhealthy,” Mark twitted his second.  
  
“It’s a cool coat,” Jason said. “You’re just jealous because you don’t have one.”  
  
“I’m not… Oh, never mind. You stay right there on Planet Jason. I’m going to check in with the rest of the team.”  
  
Jason took himself (and the coat) into the living room, flopped onto the couch, put his feet up and switched on the 3V to watch GNN News.  
  
Mark made his way into Anderson’s study, sat down at the desk and activated the tele-comm.  
  
“Zark, would you patch me through to the Chief, please?”  
  
_“Certainly, Commander. Please stand by.”_  
  
The holo display lit up with the Galaxy Security crest then changed to show Security Chief Anderson sitting down at a comm unit. Mark could make out floral curtains in the background.  
  
“Hi, Chief,” he said. “Have you settled in okay at Al’s place?”  
  
_“We’re fine,”_ Anderson said. _“I promised not to go near the kitchen. Princess is raiding Al’s wardrobe and Keyop’s looking for earthworms to start some kind of science project, I think. I felt it was best not to ask for too much detail. At least it keeps him from trying to find the cookie jar.”_ [5]  
  
“Probably wise,” Mark said. “Tiny reports no atypical activity around the house and Jason’s ride from the Tower was uneventful. We’ll stay on alert. Have a good night.”  
  
Mark closed the channel, then returned to the living room and sat down in one of the armchairs. “Jason?”  
  
“Yeah?” Jason was leaning back with his arms behind his head, but wasn’t relaxed despite his posture.  
  
“You said you wanted to talk about something?”  
  
Jason took a deep breath. “Yeah. You gotta promise not to laugh.”  
  
“Okay, I promise. You haven’t broken up with Fran or anything have you?”  
  
“Nothing so… ordinary, I’m afraid,” Jason said. “It, uh, turns out I’m the boss’ nephew.”  
  
“You’re what?”  
  
“Anderson. He’s my uncle.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“I wish I were kidding, believe me.”  
  
Mark took a moment to put the pieces together. “Your Mom was Anderson’s sister?”  
  
“I wish,” Jason said.  
  
“You mean your father was Anderson’s _brother_ … the one who was killed?”  
  
“Yes to the first part, and it gets complicated from there. This is the part where you’re not allowed to laugh…”  
  
  
  
  
In her youth, Magister Irillie Terel had spent time as part of a corsair crew. She had been as ruthless as her male colleagues and lived for the next raid, the adrenaline rush, the feeling of power and freedom that came with piracy. She’d worked her way up through the ranks in the usual manner (it involved blood and a variety of weapons) until she became captain of her own small privateer.  
  
Then she had taken a hostage, the first born son and heir of one of Urgos’ noble families and held him to ransom.  
  
To her surprise – and the profound annoyance of the young man – the family refused to pay up and petitioned the Urgosian government to declare the second son heir in place of the elder.  
  
Terel’s hostage proposed a deal: if the pirate would help him wreak vengeance on his family and regain his position, he would pay double the amount of the original ransom demand. It was an offer too good to refuse.  
  
As happens from time to time, it turned out that while the mission was a success and the young man took his place at the head of what remained of his family, Irillie Terel did not keep the ransom. She gave it to her crew and gave up piracy to marry her erstwhile hostage, who, it turned out, was just as ruthless and bloodthirsty as any pirate. Everyone agreed that it was a very well made match.  
  
Four decades later, Irillie Terel’s pirate days were little more than a memory and she was well and truly respectable. Her grandchildren were growing up to be fighters and her husband was content to fish and hunt while overseeing the struggles of their children to see which one would end up as the successor to the family title. There was a spot of bloodletting here and there but these things were to be expected. Blood will out when blood will out, after all.  
  
And now it seemed Urgos as a society was putting its pirate days behind it as well. Magister Terel climbed the ramp along with her entourage to board the diplomatic cruiser that would carry her to Earth. She would meet President Alexander Kane and put Urgos’ seal to a non-aggression pact, thus consigning Urgos’ quietly-sponsored space pirates to the void.  
  
How the galaxy changed.  
  
It was all Captain Doom’s fault.  
  
Magister Terel had never liked Captain Doom. He was altogether too charming, too self-possessed, too overconfident, and _definitely_ too much of a sentimentalist. Now he had well and truly overreached himself and here she was, getting on board a ship bound for Earth to sign a damned non-aggression pact with the bloody Federation of Peaceful Planets!  
  
Terel allowed herself to be shown to a comfortable seat. She settled in, straight-backed and proud. Her raven dark hair had turned to silver but her piercing ice blue eyes were still as sharp as ever. If someone had told her fifty years ago that she would be doing this, she would have laughed at them. Well… after she’d cut their head off, anyway.  
  
How the galaxy changed.  
  
It would have come as no surprise to Magister Terel that there were those aboard the cruiser whose sympathies lay with the pirates. A lot of Urgosian families had at least one pirate in the ranks, after all.  
  
Had Magister Terel known that the navigator had linked up the ship’s systems with another, much smaller transport and was allowing that transport to shadow the cruiser to avoid detection by Federation early warning systems, she probably would have smiled and said, “Good luck to them.”  
  
As it happened, she didn’t know, and she was very careful not to ask.  
  
What she didn’t take into account was the grand old pirate tradition of double-crossing one’s allies.  
  
  
  
  
From the sterile sanctuary of Nerve Center, 7-Zark-7 observed the apparent peace at ISO Powell and at Chief Anderson’s official residence, then on the strength of it, decided he could afford to take a ten second oil break. He might even check in with the AI unit Susan at the Early Warning Station on Pluto to see if there was any activity in the outer reaches.  
  
As such, he failed to notice the momentary disruption to the data stream from one of the security satellites that hiccoughed for the merest fraction of a second when Spectran Agent S-9 hacked into the feed.  
  
“Too easy,” S-9 said as her palm unit lit up with a three-dimensional holograph of the Chief of Galaxy Security’s residence and its surrounds. She sat comfortably in the back seat of the white Peugeot air car which was parked in the street outside the house. All three Galaxy Girls were in their combat gear. S-9, as befitted the commanding officer, was wearing white.  
  
“So much for the famous Galaxy Security internal review,” said Garnet, sitting in the driver’s seat. In keeping with her code name, she wore a uniform the colour of dark blood.  
  
“Famous last words,” warned Emerald at S-9’s right, who was similarly clad in dark green. “We cannot be too careful. Even if the Earthlings are phenomenally stupid, their computer systems could still detect us at any time.”  
  
“Are you questioning my abilities, Emerald?” S-9 asked.  
  
“Never, Madame,” Emerald said, smiling. “Merely Garnet’s wisdom in tempting fate. I am from the Falovian Mountains. We are a superstitious lot.”  
  
“It must be all that inbreeding,” Garnet said, smiling archly.  
  
“One day, Garnet,” Emerald said calmly, “you will take one risk too many, and my only regret is that I will not be able to remind you that I told you so, for you will be dead.”  
  
“Enough,” S-9 told them. “You can snipe on your own time. For now, I expect your focus to be on the mission.”  
  
“Of course, Madame,” Emerald demurred.  
  
“Yes, Madame,” Garnet said through clenched teeth.  
  
As the sun sank below the horizon and the sky darkened, S-9 gazed over at the large wrought iron gate that led to Security Chief Anderson’s driveway. There were armed guards in attendance, as was to be expected after the number of attempts on Anderson’s life, with Citrine’s botched attack being the latest. Mala had entrusted S-9 with this mission and assigned her a small, hand-picked squad. Citrine had been the weak link, but Zoltar would hold S-9 responsible for that fiasco. Now the plan had to be completely re-worked. Security would be unbelievably tight at the signing of the non-aggression pact and Mala had given S-9 the go-ahead to move the timetable up and kill the Security Chief before the arrival of the Urgosian delegation. Galaxy Security wouldn’t be expecting another strike so soon.  
  
A black BMW paused at the gate and the driver’s window lowered to reveal a blonde woman who exchanged a few words with the guard and showed the contents of an ID folder. The gate slid open and the guard waved the car inside.  
  
So Anderson had company.  
  
“His liaison officer,” Garnet observed. “At least, that’s what they _say_.”  
  
“Intelligence suggests that what they say is true,” Emerald said. “Anderson and his staff are all too staid and proper for blackmail. Our people have already tried to dig up dirt and found none.”  
  
  
  
  
Jason and Mark were on their feet as Alberta Jones strode into Anderson’s living room, having let herself in.  
  
Mark took in Jones’ combat garb under the overcoat she wore. The officer was also wearing two side arms and a pair of tactical batons. “Got your message,” he said. “Zark’s keeping his eyes peeled.”  
  
“How do I look?” Jason asked. He was wearing a button-down shirt over his t-shirt and jeans, a jacket, a false moustache, wig and glasses.  
  
“Close enough in the dark and from a distance,” Jones said. She dumped a kit bag on the coffee table. “Have you got your long coat of… what did you call it?”  
  
“Badass,” Jason said. He picked the coat up from where it lay over the back of the sofa and put it on.  
  
Jones unzipped the bag and handed Jason a standard-issue service pistol, then retrieved several clips. “I know you’ve got your sidearm but there’s no such thing as too many weapons in this kind of situation.”  
  
“So I hear,” Jason said, casting a glance at Jones’ hair. “Still carrying lethal hairpins?”  
  
“It never hurts to be prepared,” Jones said. She offered Mark a handgun, grip first. “Commander?”  
  
“I’ll stick to the boomerang,” Mark said. “I’m more comfortable with it.”  
  
Jones shrugged. “Suit yourself, sir.”  
  
Jason leaned forward and peered into the bag. “Did you leave anything behind in the armoury for anyone else who might need a weapon, Al?”  
  
“I might have left a few hand grenades,” Jones said.  
  
“Understandable,” Jason said. “Hand grenades are so yesterday.”  
  
“Especially when you consider the kind of precision damage you can do with an LX-20,” Jones said. “I really must sign one out tomorrow.”  
  
“I hear you,” Jason agreed.  
  
“For Pete’s sake!” Mark said. “You like weapons. I get it. Come on, Jason. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can lead the enemy away from the residential area.”  
  
Jones zipped up the bag and shouldered it. “Lead on, Commander.”  
  
“You should stay here, Al,” Mark said. “Nothing personal, but you’re not G-Force.”  
  
“By now,” Jones said, “Spectra knows Chief Anderson’s routine. He never leaves the house without a bodyguard, and I was seen to enter. It’d look out of place if Jason left and I didn’t go with him.” She put the bag down and shrugged out of her long blue overcoat. “Put this on. You’ll pass for a member of his security detail if you cover up the t-shirt and it’ll look like situation normal: Chief Anderson with two guards.”  
  
“Okay,” Mark said, “but we split up at Seahorse Base, and if we come under attack, you get your head down and keep it down, got it? Mala’s Galaxy Girls are extremely dangerous, and if anything were to happen to you, the Chief would have my hide.”  
  
Jones’ coat was tight across Mark’s shoulders but he was able to hold it more-or-less closed in front as the three exited the house. Both the coat and Jones’ presence chafed – she was right about keeping up the appearance of normality but Mark was far from happy about it. That spot just above his stomach was twisting itself into a knot, which usually meant trouble.  
  
A flicker of movement above the garden wall had him shoving Jones unceremoniously to the ground and leaping forward to meet the three women somersaulting in over the barrier as though it were nothing.  
  
“ _Transmute!_ ” The blue coat shredded away and Mark touched down in full battle gear. The boomerang had already left his hand but the Galaxy Girls – one in white, one in red and one in green – scattered to avoid the bladed weapon. Lieutenants Thorne and Greene were running toward them with weapons drawn, but the woman in white tossed a rose toward them and Mark shouted at the security officers to get down and take cover as he reached out his hand to retrieve the sonic boomerang.  
  
The rose bomb exploded and Mark threw up one cape wing to shield himself from the gravel and dirt that was thrown up. The small, shaped charge didn’t generate enough of a shock wave to knock him off his feet and he was able to move forward again, seeking out an opponent.  
  
Mark closed with the woman in white, who aimed a kick at his head. He dodged and faced off with the woman in green who slashed at his chest with a knife. The blade skittered harmlessly off the armoured fabric of his uniform and he retaliated with a chop to his attacker’s forearm. She spun away and his blow glanced off without the bone-breaking force he’d hoped for.  
  
Mark could hear Jason’s gun and several others, all firing at once, but he had no time to turn and look. The woman in green was whirling toward him like a dancer and he sprang upward to avoid her. She jumped to meet him, grabbing for his ankle. He kicked, knocking her hand away. He heard a pained exclamation from her as he landed, spun and cast the boomerang. The woman leaned back to avoid the blades but the sound waves overcame her and she staggered and fell.  
  
Mark caught the boomerang and glanced around to assess the battlefield. Jason – still in his disguise as Chief Anderson – was holding two guns, standing over the unconscious woman in red and –  
  
“Drop your weapons!” Both Mark and Jason turned toward the woman in white who was standing on the steps of the house with Jones in an arm lock and a knife held against her throat.  
  
“I thought I told you to keep your head down!” Mark snarled.  
  
Jason walked over to stand next to Mark. “I suppose you expect us to let you go now you’ve got a hostage,” he called.  
  
“Think you can take the shot?” Mark asked softly.  
  
“Won’t have to,” Jason murmured back. “Look at what Al’s holding in her hand.”  
  
“I really need to stop underestimating the uniformed staff,” Mark said. “Let her have it!” he called.  
  
“You seriously –” the Galaxy Girl began, then she jerked and arched spasmodically as Jones jabbed the tip of a live taser baton into her thigh and delivered the full charge.  
  
Mark broke into a run as both women collapsed. He grabbed the white clad woman by the arm and hauled her roughly to her feet. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he explained. The woman trembled and tottered in his grip and he held her arms behind her back while Jason opened the door of the staff car and rummaged in the glove compartment for restraints. “You okay, Al?” Mark asked.  
  
“Been better, sir,” Jones said painfully from the ground. “If I never get tased with one of these things again it’ll be too soon.” The security and liaison officer had pushed herself up on her elbows and was taking deep breaths as she tried to recover from the shock she’d taken.  
  
“Nice move, though,” Mark said.  
  
“Trust me, Commander,” Jones groaned, “it was anything but ‘nice.’”  
  
The sound of sirens drifted on the night air. “I think the neighbours noticed the rose bomb,” Jason called. “And possibly the shooting. Ah-ha!” He flourished a pair of cable-tie style restraints and hurried over to assist Mark with securing their prisoner.  
  
“How are Greene and Thorne?” Mark asked.  
  
“I’ll go check,” Jason said, and Mark double-checked that the Galaxy Girl’s restraints were tight without being damaging.  
  
Mark pulled the white mask from his prisoner’s head and grinned as he recognised the woman from the ISO’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. “Agent S-9? Oh, I wish I could see Zoltar’s face when he finds out you got yourself captured.” He looked up to see Jason returning with Lieutenants Green and Thorne in tow.  
  
“The guys are a little beat up,” Jason said, “but nothing they won’t recover from. They took you seriously when you told ‘em to get down, Skipper.”  
  
“Always a wise choice,” Mark said. He surveyed the front yard: three downed Galaxy Girls, a small crater in the lawn, two injured security officers and Lieutenant Colonel Jones recovering from a taser shock on the steps. “Is there a Home Owners’ Association in this neighbourhood? Because I think the Chief’s going to be _really_ unpopular with the committee.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jason agreed. “We’ve lowered the tone tonight.” He looked down at his coat, which had several bullet holes torn in the fabric, revealing the armour underneath. “Man, this coat is badass.”  
  
Mark stared at the damage to the coat… and the corresponding lack of damage to Jason. “Okay, I might be inclined to concede that you have a point about the coat.”  
  
“Maybe I should get a hat to go with it…” Jason mused.  
  
“Absolutely not,” Mark said. “There’s no such thing as a badass hat. Hats are _not_ cool.”  
  
  
  
  
“You _what?_ ” Anderson shouted into his palm unit, rising to his feet as he did so. Princess reached across the table and carefully moved his tea mug out of the way.  
  
“Is everything okay?” Princess ventured.  
  
“No,” Anderson said. “Everything is not okay.” He turned his attention back to the call he was taking. “No, I am _not_ over-reacting!” He strode into the hallway, driven by nervous energy. “I don’t care how much armour you were wearing! If Mark tells you to keep your head down, you do it! …A miss is _not_ as good as a mile! What were you _thinking_? There are some enemies you just don’t engage unless you’re G-Force! Al? Al? Are you holding the phone at arm’s length or something? Al? Oh… Mark. Well done, Commander. Capturing Agent S-9 is a significant achievement. Tell Jason I said good work, both of you. And put Al back on. I haven’t finished yelling at her… No, it won’t wait until morning! Mark?” Anderson held the palm unit out and stared at it. “He hung up.”  
  
Princess was wide eyed. “Mark captured Agent S-9? What happened?”  
  
“Zark picked up a rogue signal in the surveillance system when he returned from a ten-second oil break earlier this evening and tracked it to a source somewhere within a few hundred yards of the residence. Given what we knew of a Galaxy Girl presence, it made sense that they were there to make an attempt on my life, so Mark and Jason decided to lead them away from the house and toward ISO Seahorse to try and avoid collateral damage. Al brought a staff car around to use as bait but the Galaxy Girl team attacked as Mark and Al were escorting Jason to the car. Al shouldn’t have been there in the first place and S-9 tried to take her hostage, but you remember those old tactical batons of yours?”  
  
“I knew they’d come in handy some day,” Princess said with a smile.  
  
“Unfortunately, Al was in physical contact with S-9 when she used the taser and wound up being shocked as well. The objective was met and Mark took S-9 into custody. Lieutenants Greene and Thorne sustained minor injuries and they’re being treated at the base hospital at ISO Seahorse. Shay’s at the house supervising the clean-up.”  
  
“Does this mean we can go home?” Keyop asked.  
  
“Director Kelly believes there may be more than one team in play,” Anderson said, “so no. Jason’s keeping up the pretence of being me until we get the non-aggression pact signed. Now I suppose I’d better let Secretary Claybourne know what’s happened.”  
  
  
  
  
Alberta Jones winced as she sat down at the breakfast table. Her hair was still damp from the shower and she cradled a large mug of tea in both hands. She was wrapped up in a bathrobe and was sporting a dressing on the left side of her neck where Agent S-9’s knife had left a cut.  
  
“I swear that mattress has lumps on the lumps!” she grumbled.  
  
“Sorry, Al,” Shay Alban said with a shrug, “but if the guest bed was comfy, my family’d want to stay here when they’re in town and you know how much fun that’d be.”  
  
“About as much fun as I’m having right now?” Jones speculated.  
  
Alban chuckled and loaded her fork up with bacon and egg. She chewed, swallowed and grinned. “And you can still put your hand on your heart and honestly say that you haven’t had Chief Anderson in your bed!”  
  
Jones shook her head. “That’s just so wrong on so many levels, I don’t know where to start.”  
  
“Try to see the funny side, girl!” Alban chided.  
  
“I’ll let you know when I find it,” Jones said. “I’d better get dressed. I’ve got to get that staff car back to the motor pool and fill out the paperwork to explain the shrapnel damage.”  
  
“I’m still mad at you for not bringing me along to that little fire fight of yours,” Shay grumbled. “I thought you were supposed to be my friend!”  
  
Jones put her tea mug down. “You honestly expect me to believe that you would have _enjoyed_ being shot at and tased? I could barely move for twenty minutes and I spent several of those being shouted at!”  
  
“Well, maybe not the tasing part, but that was your own fault.”  
  
“I’m really looking forward to having this non-aggression pact signed, sealed and delivered so I can go home,” Jones said. “Putting our Chief of Staff in my house is quite possibly the daftest idea you’ve ever had.”  
  
“Also your own fault. You choose to live on base,” Alban pointed out. “If you lived in town like normal people, it wouldn’t have been an option.”  
  
“Really, Shay,” Jones said. “Since when are we normal people?”  
  
  
  
  
The sentry accepted the stolen security pass and didn’t look twice at the holographic disguise that Geran wore. The Galaxy Girls had failed spectacularly in their attempt to assassinate Anderson but Khurz had managed to intercept a call made from the Security Chief’s home to a location at ISO Powell Base. Geran had chatted up an Army corporal who had been drinking at Amano’s Bar, slipped a long-acting sedative into his drink, stolen his ID card and used the holographic scanning equipment to create a mask that would fool most people for most of the time. A retina scan would have uncovered the deception but the sentry hadn’t asked for one. If she had, Geran would have shot her.  
  
Geran parked the car in Cosgrove Drive, walked around to the rear of the vehicle and opened the trunk. Two combat androids climbed out and retrieved their weapons. “Follow me,” Geran ordered. The androids complied silently and without hesitation.  
  
  
  
  
Captain Maxwell and Lieutenant Patrick had taken over the watch and were in Lieutenant Colonel Jones’ kitchen accepting cups of coffee from Princess. Anderson was sitting at the dining room table reading his bulletins when Princess’ wrist communicator chimed. Almost immediately, Anderson’s palm unit and the palm units of his guards began to sound with an emergency tone. Keyop came running in from the living room, wrist band shrilling as he did so.  
  
Geran approached the house, his gun at the ready. There was a series of ‘pops’ and something hit his ankle – hard: once, twice, three times. His leg gave way under him in an explosion of pain and he collapsed. His head hit the pavement and the holographic mask flickered and fell from his face.  
  
The androids raised their weapons, seeking out the assailant. Their systems located an anomalous signal coming from an odd little garden ornament which emitted a high-pitched whine, then the EMP generator discharged and both androids fell like marionettes with the strings cut.  
  
Josh Maxwell and Fran Patrick ran out of the house to see the neighbours advancing with weapons at the ready.  
  
“Need a hand?” asked a woman in running gear.  
  
“I think we’ve got this. Thanks anyway,” Maxwell said. He turned the groaning Spectran over and secured his wrists with handcuffs. He glanced up at Fran Patrick, who was making sure the androids were deactivated. “This is a nice neighbourhood,” he remarked.  
  
“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Anderson said to Princess from the front window.  
  
“Don’t say that!” Princess chided. “Zark put a lot of work into those defences. I bet he’s thrilled that he was able to use them for real!”  
  
“What I want to know is how a Spectran agent and two androids got past Base Security,” Anderson said darkly.  
  
  
  
  
“Zark, could you please slow down and back up a little?” Mark asked. The adrenaline rush from the previous evening’s battle and the resultant insistence by Chief Anderson that he complete the attendant paperwork meant that the G-Force Commander had eventually managed to get to sleep at around 0300 local time and he had still been asleep when Zark’s emergency call woke him. He sat up in bed, ready to spring into action (albeit it would have been somewhat bleary-eyed action until transmutation had him wide-awake, as it was designed to do) until Zark’s words filtered into his brain and he lay down again without triggering his transformer. He pulled the covers up around his ears against the early morning chill and tried to make sense of what the robot was saying.  
  
“ _They worked!”_ Zark declared again. “ _My garden gnomes worked! Chief Anderson is safe and the Spectrans are all captured!”_  
  
“Zark,” Mark said, “I could have sworn I heard you say ‘garden gnomes’ just then. Is there something wrong with your speech processor?”  
  
“ _No, Commander_ ,” Zark said. “ _I’ve noticed since the war started that the Spectrans tend to conceal their evil weaponry inside everyday objects so that we don’t notice them. They’re easily overlooked and it’s how they take us by surprise a lot of the time_.”  
  
“True,” Mark agreed. His mental processes began to catch up. “So, you… hid some tech inside… what, garden gnomes?”  
  
“ _Not only did I hide the tech_ ,” Zark explained, “ _I also rendered it almost undetectable by most standard scanning devices. I hid a scanner, a very small-calibre rifle – basically a scaled-down ‘varminter,’ which I found quite appropriate, given what I was after – and a high-intensity very-short-range EMP generator inside some novelty garden gnomes which I then asked Lieutenant Colonel Jones to position in her front yard. We did some limited field testing but then this morning we had three actual hostiles, two of which my hidden scanner identified as combat androids, and I was able to use the weapons. They worked! My little experiment is a grand success!”_  
  
“You used the EMP generator to take the androids down?” Mark deduced.  
  
“ _Exactly! And my modified varminter hit their Spectran leader in the ankle. The doctors at ISO Powell say he’ll probably have a permanent limp_.”  
  
“Sounds like you did good, buddy,” Mark said. He yawned and blinked. “So, you’ve got everything in hand, right? None of our people were injured or anything?”  
  
“ _Not so much as a scratch!”_ Zark declared triumphantly.  
  
“That’s great, Zark. Uh… I hope you don’t mind, but I haven’t had a whole lot of sleep and if nobody needs me right now, I could use a little more before I have to report for duty, okay?”  
  
_“Of course, Commander. You humans do require quite a lot of down time in order to function correctly. 7‑Zark‑7 signing off.”_  
  
“Garden gnomes,” Mark muttered under his breath. “There’s one for the books.” He turned over, stuck his head under the pillow and closed his eyes.  
  
  
  
  
Once the Spectran visitors had been removed – the androids to a decommissioning centre and Geran to the Base Hospital under guard – it was time to head to the ISO Tower. Lieutenant Francine Patrick gave Security Chief Anderson a frankly sceptical look. “She did not,” she said.  
  
“Yes, she did,” Anderson said and dangled a set of car keys.  
  
“You want I should call her, sir?” Patrick threatened.  
  
“Call her on the way,” Anderson said and unlocked the driver’s door of the silver Audi. Lieutenant Maxwell got in the front passenger side and Fran Patrick was left with little option but to climb into the back.  
  
“I’m pretty sure regulations state that a protective services officer is supposed to drive!” Patrick said in a last-ditch attempt at saving face.  
  
“Oh, relax,” Anderson said and started the engine. “Al’s fine with this.”  
  
The Audi glided out of the garage and the door rolled shut behind it.  
  
“You wouldn’t be doing this if she still had that Toyota Comet,” Patrick said.  
  
“True,” Anderson said. “If Al still had the Comet, we’d walk.”  
  
The Audi’s engine purred as Anderson guided it out of the housing section of ISO Powell Base to the checkpoint. The sentry, who had a Lieutenant standing over her with a thunderous expression on her face, conducted an ID check – with retina scanning – and waved them through. Anderson opened the throttle and the Audi surged forward.  
  
Captain Maxwell grinned. “Not bad, sir. Not bad.”  
  
  
  
  
Zoltar closed the tele-comm channel and turned to his sister in disbelief. “How could two strike teams – one of them led by Agent S-9 herself – have failed us so badly?”  
  
Mala sank down to sit on the steps of the dais that held Zoltar’s throne and shook her head.  
  
Zoltar waved an imperious hand at his guards. “Leave us. Wait outside until I summon you.”  
  
The androids turned and marched from the room. When they were gone, Zoltar sat down next to his sister. “Sabine is one of the last people I would have expected to get herself captured. Do you think the Federation will offer a prisoner exchange?”  
  
Mala made a helpless gesture with one hand. “They may consider her valuable enough that they will use her as a hostage. If that is the case, the Luminous One will leave her for dead.” Mala blinked back the moisture building up in her eyes. “We should probably attempt an extraction as soon as possible, before we receive orders not to.”  
  
“Agreed,” Zoltar said. “She is our cousin and the thought of abandoning her does not sit well with me.”  
  
“Agent Citrine was also a cousin,” Mala said.  
  
“A _third_ cousin,” Zoltar pointed out. “You cannot possibly have considered her Sabine’s equal.”  
  
“She had potential,” Mala said. “At least that’s what her supervisors told me.”  
  
“They probably told you what they thought you wanted to hear,” Zoltar said.  
  
“I think I will have a talk with them,” Mala said. “If the girl hadn’t tipped our hand, we might not be left with only one strike team.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Zoltar said. “One thing I have noticed of late is that Galaxy Security personnel seem to be harder to overcome. I will order Khurz and his men to abandon the safe house and lie low until the signing of the non-aggression pact. They must attack and win.”  
  
“G-Force will be waiting for them,” Mala said.  
  
“Yes,” Zoltar said, “but I believe that Captain Doom and his men will also be waiting for G-Force. The Urgosian space pirates may not have formally allied themselves with us, but I suspect that for the time being, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”  
  
  
  
  
The _Perlin_ [7] was a compact high-speed four-person star-ship which had been stolen from the Proxima Centauri Space Station about a year previously. Designed as a plaything for those with more money than sense, she had originally been a sporty red with go-faster stripes but Captain Doom’s crew had enamelled her fuselage a dead matte black when they installed her armaments along with state-of-the-art stealth technology. She had, up until about 72 hours previously, featured a defiant Jolly Roger skull-and-crossbones motif on her tailfin (with Viking-style horns, to reflect Captain Doom’s preferred headgear) but Doom had ordered it removed for the purposes of her current mission. In the darkness of space, _Perlin_ was a shadow.  
  
_Perlin’s_ navigational system was currently slaved to that of the Urgosian cruiser _Adamant_ which was about to drop out of warp and enter the Terran shipping lanes.  
  
Captain Doom’s two most trusted lieutenants watched the _Adamant_ and their own systems for any anomalies that might suggest that the game was up.  
  
“Preparing to exit warp,” Demmish reported. “Counting down to time drive activation. Four… three… two… one…”  
  
The occupants of the ship braced themselves for the discomfort of hyperspatial translation. Fortunately, at the low factor being pulled by the _Adamant_ , there was very little in the way of pain. The star field shimmered and normalised as Demmish double-checked the navigation console. “We’re in the Earth-bound shipping lane,” he reported, “still slaved to the cruiser and on course.” He let his breath out in a long exhalation. “Let’s hope that navigator of theirs keeps the rest of the crew from checking the scanners too carefully. We’re so close.”  
  
Ramala gazed up at the silvery grey bulk of the cruiser above and ahead of the small ship. “So very close,” she said.  
  
  
  
  
Laureli Kane glanced out the window of the armoured limousine as the vehicle crawled onto the hardstand at ISO Powell Base. Members of the Presidential Security Detail jogged alongside the Presidential limousine looking smart and dangerous in their midnight blue uniforms with their distinctive mirrored visors.  
  
Colonel Everdene tilted his head slightly as he listened to a transmission via his comm. “The Urgosian cruiser is coming out of re-entry now, Mister President. They’ve been cleared for approach.” Everdene touched one finger to the transmit button. “All units hold position.”  
  
  
  
  
The cruiser _Adamant_ levelled out, her nosecone still glowing orange from the heat of re-entry. Her crew worked their way through checklists and looked eagerly ahead as the heat shields slid back from the windshield to reveal the Planet Earth below.  
  
The first volley from _Perlin_ took out the port engine and put the _Adamant_ into a flat spin which rapidly turned into a rolling dive. The crew worked frantically to correct the ship’s descent while the automated systems transmitted a mayday to all stations.  
  
“She’s going down,” Ramala said with evident satisfaction.  
  
“Finish her off,” Demmish ordered.  
  
“Demmish!” Ramala cried, her voice rising with alarm. “It’s G-Force!”  
  
“What?” Demmish spun and glared at the tactical display. He stabbed at a control and the aft monitor lit up with an image of a large blue and red ship.  
  
“They’re acquiring weapons lock!” Ramala said.  
  
The main display turned red and a claxon sounded.  
  
“They’ve locked on!” Ramala said.  
  
“Let’s get out of here!” Demmish said. He hit the emergency warp control and the black ship _Perlin_ vanished.  
  
  
  
  
Aboard the _Phoenix_ , Tiny Harper slapped the console in frustration. “They bugged out, Mark,” he reported. “Must’ve gone to a short-range warp hop. They could be anywhere.”  
  
_“Never mind, Tiny,”_ Mark said over the tele-comm. _“Follow the cruiser. Check for escape pods and follow them in. Assist with search and rescue as required.”_  
  
“Aye-aye, Commander.”  
  
Tiny pushed the _Phoenix_ ’s nose down and followed the trail of smoke.  
  
  
  
  
The dying cruiser shook and lurched as she fell through the sky. Struggling against the forces that seemed to want to toss her in every direction imaginable, Magister Terel dragged the last of her staffers into the escape capsule and pulled the hatch shut behind them. The pod’s inertial mitigation field had activated when _Adamant_ was hit and was fortunately undamaged. “Strap in!” Terel ordered. _Soft-bellied planetsiders_ , she didn’t snarl at them, much as she would have liked to. How the galaxy changed.  
  
Seemingly stunned into torpor, the diplomatic staff fumbled with their harnesses. “It’s going to get bumpy from here, children,” Terel said. She smashed the protective glass and punched the release button.  
  
Rockets fired and the escape capsule burst clear of the cruiser, which began to break up with the additional force of the capsule’s ejection. Terel clung to the hatch controls, knees buckling as the capsule spun and whirled through the air. “Oh, it’s been a long while since I had to do anything like this,” Terel muttered as she grabbed for a handhold on the nearest seat. There was a jolt – fortunately softened by the inertial mitigator – as parachutes first burst clear then snapped open and the capsule began to stabilise on descent.  
  
Terel braced herself upright and regained her balance. “Welcome to Earth,” she said to nobody in particular. She was fairly sure she shouldn’t have been enjoying herself quite this much, but by all the gods and their concubines, she hadn’t felt so alive in years.  
  
  
  
  
President Kane sat behind his desk and watched the holographic display as David Anderson talked him through the chain of events. Secretary Claybourne was seated in one of the visitor’s chairs and looked decidedly uncomfortable as the images showed the Urgosian ship _Adamant_ going out of control and breaking up.  
  
“Our analysis suggests very strongly that the second ship must have been flying in close formation with the cruiser. The timing of the attack was designed for maximum impact. It was done to send a message. They could have taken the cruiser out while she was in warp but nobody would ever have known what happened.  They deliberately waited for re-entry so that the cruiser would be destroyed in our airspace. We were just damned lucky that she went down over the Pacific and didn’t hit a populated area. If the attackers had finished the job before the _Phoenix_ scared them off, we could have had debris raining down over Center City.”  
  
“So they were most likely Urgosians?” Kane surmised.  
  
“It’s too early to say, Mister President,” Anderson said. “We know Zoltar has a vested interest in keeping the non-aggression pact from going ahead. It could have been Spectran agents, but they would have needed the cooperation of a crew member aboard the cruiser. Probably someone who wasn’t aware that the plan involved opening fire on the ship. We’ll know more when we’ve analysed the wreckage.”  
  
“Stan?” President Kane addressed the Secretary of Defence. “Do you have anything from the Patrol as yet? How did this get past them?”  
  
“I hope to have a report very soon, Mister President,” Claybourne said. “If David’s right and the attack ship was flying in close formation, it may have been in the shadow of the cruiser, giving us only one return on our systems rather than two, and a dead black ship in space is damned near impossible to eyeball.”  
  
“So,” Kane said, leaning back in the big chair, “we have the Urgosian delegation arriving in pieces, we have the Spectrans sending Galaxy Girls as well as robot assassins after you, Anderson; _and_ we have an unknown quantity, most likely a rogue Urgosian faction also in play. Did I miss anything?”  
  
“As soon as I have additional intel, sirs, I’ll inform you both,” Anderson said. “In the meantime, I advise you to remain at high alert.”  
  
“Laureli’s going to be furious,” Kane predicted. “She was hoping to attend a meeting of the Center City Horticultural Association this evening.”  
  
“We can’t be too careful, sir,” Anderson said.  
  
  
  
  
Magister Terel gazed out of the window of one of the reception rooms at the Urgosian Embassy. Outside she could see the shadows lengthening on the lawn and in the courtyard. Urgosian security guards patrolled the grounds, while on the outside of the wrought iron garrison-style fence Galaxy Security officers in midnight blue combat gear stood guard.  
  
“I suppose I should feel safe,” Terel remarked.  
  
“You’re as safe as we can make you, Magister,” Lieutenant Colonel Jones said. “Your guard has been hand-picked by Director O’Hara himself. We’ll provide an armed escort for your motorcade tomorrow and we’ll have additional security on site at the Presidential Palace for the signing itself.  
  
“What about air cover?” Terel asked.  
  
“There’ll be air cover,” Jones said. “We have the profile of the ship that attacked you on file and our people will be looking out for it.”  
  
“It slipped past you the first time,” Terel said.  
  
“With respect, Magister,” Jones said, “our analysis indicates that the ship probably followed you from Urgos in close formation to escape detection. That kind of close formation is extremely difficult – almost impossible in fact – to maintain through time-warp without the navigational systems being linked. The ship rode your slipstream in through re-entry and attacked once you were both safely established in atmospheric flight.”  
  
Terel drew herself up, her mouth a thin line. “A statement, then,” she said “Someone from Urgos.”  
  
“It’s too early to speculate, Magister. A copy of the preliminary incident report has been transmitted to the Ambassador here on Earth. I’m sure you’ll be able to read it if you wish.”  
  
“There are some very persistent people from Galaxy Network News outside the gate,” Terel observed, changing the subject. “I take it I am not allowed to order them shot?”  
  
“I’m afraid not. Members of the fourth estate kick up such a dreadful fuss when you do. Freedom of the press and all that. I can lend you our Public Relations maven if you like. Mister Ikari’s very good at issuing statements.”  
  
“Oh,” Terel said, “I think we’ll let them camp out a bit longer. They do so look as though they’re enjoying it. Now, tell me about Galaxy Security’s plan to get me to the signing of this pact unscathed.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


3.  I made meta-aramid up. Aramid and para-aramid both exist at the time of writing, being the glass fibre ‘cloth’ used when making bullet and knife resistant gear. I expect that by the time the twenty second century rolls around we’ll have some other stuff as well. Hey, it’s science fiction. I’m supposed to make stuff up.  
  
4.  A worm farm is nothing like an ant farm. Princess is just taking a wild guess, and she’s rubbish at life sciences. In canon, she doesn’t know what an entomologist is.  
  
5.  Lt Col Jones’ cookie jar contains McVitie’s Chocolate Digestives. [6] Acting on past experience, Chief Anderson has hidden the cookie jar in the back of the pantry and left out a box of sacrificial Graham Crackers instead but since this does not advance the plot, the writer left it out of the main story.  
  
6.  A chocolate digestive is not as sinful an indulgence as a Tim Tam, but basically the chocolate cancels out any benefits from the digestive biscuit (cookie, for North American readers.) Digestive biscuits and Tim Tams both have entries in Wikipedia.  
  
7.  A Perlin is a Peregrine/Merlin hybrid, popular with falconers. Very cute (especially when they do that thing where they fluff their head feathers up like a pom-pom) but still a predator to be reckoned with.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Aliquando et insanire iucundum est –_ It is sometimes pleasant even to act like a madman. (Seneca)**

 

 _It’s not entirely true to say that animals all have well developed survival instincts._ Surviving _animals seem to have well developed survival instincts. The others... well... That’s how we define ‘survivors.’  
  
Human beings like to think that we’ve evolved, but the thing is that unlike most other animals, we behave somewhat paradoxically. After surviving a negative experience, we have a tendency to go back, poke at the rubble and see if we can cheat fate again; maybe have another go at mixing those two chemicals and see if we can control the explosion a bit better this time.  
  
In the realm of interplanetary politics, risk-taking behaviour is pretty much the norm, and as might be expected, the rate of attrition is high. The key lies in choosing your battles._

  
  
  
  
The square outside the Federal Complex was a broad plaza paved with golden sandstone. Wide, shallow steps led up to the pillared portico of the imposing building where the Federation Council deliberated and the wheels of the galactic government, like those of justice, ground small and exceedingly fine.  
  
On most days, tourist buses offloaded camera-toting visitors who filed in and out in neatly ordered groups, taking happy snaps and looking suitably impressed at seeing the outward edifice of Law, Order and All That Is Right With The Galaxy.  
  
The plaza and the Federal Complex were devoid of tourists today however, and where the buses and coaches usually parked lurked the trademark black SUVs of Galaxy Security, their mirror tinted windows reflecting the pale afternoon sunlight. Galaxy Security’s official motto was _Semper Vigilis_ , meaning ‘Ever Watchful,’ but some of the more gung-ho uniformed staff had adopted, _Si vos es vultus pro tribulatione inveneris_ (‘If you are looking for trouble, you have found it’) as their unofficial _cri de geurre_. The very presence of the black vans, gleaming with potentiality, seemed to declaim the latter, rather than the former motto.  
  
  
  
  
At a sidewalk café in another plaza – this one opposite the ISO Tower – the Urgosians were on their third cups of coffee. The _Perlin_ had made good her escape from the _Phoenix_ and caught up with Captain Doom and his personal ship outside of Center City. The coffee had also caught up with Captain Doom, who had returned from the rest room and was resuming his seat next to Demmish.  
  
“There goes the motorcade, Captain,” Demmish said. He took a drag of his cigarette and Doom waved the smoke away. In a fit of bloody-mindedness, Demmish didn’t put the cigarette out. He felt that the Captain should have waited with the support vehicle rather than insisting on participating in the surveillance stage of the operation, especially here of all places. As Doom’s joint second in command, Demmish was aware that the Captain had a past with Galaxy Security and he worried about someone recognising him. That face! It was uncanny to see him unmasked in public, with that pale, youthful complexion. If any of James Anderson’s old colleagues looked closely enough at him, they would see a face straight out of memory, thanks to the reconstructive surgery he had undergone after the burns he sustained on Planet Gaia. As a concession to the risks inherent in staking out his old headquarters, Doom sported the blonde wig he usually wore under his combat mask, a pair of aviator-style mirrored sunglasses and a cloth cap. His pallor was common enough among regular and long-haul spacefarers for him to pass as a crewman on shore leave, but Demmish still fretted.  
  
“Yes,” Doom was saying, interrupting Demmish’s silent gripe. “There it goes. Let us wait a while longer and see if Ramala’s information pays off.”  
  
“He’s a shrewd one, if she’s right.”  
  
“Shrewd? Perhaps.” Doom shrugged. “ _Clever_ , now... he’s always been clever.” He returned to his perusal of the newspaper. Across the street, the plaza with its outlandish granite and steel sculpture lay sterile and windswept. Doom found his gaze drawn up to the towering edifice of the ISO building’s stark rendered exterior.  
  
Memories beckoned, threatening to sweep him away. He tore his gaze from the building and forced himself to read a mundane news story about the arrest of a gang of designer dog-wear counterfeiters. He had already pored over the morning’s headlines about the destruction of the Urgosian cruiser _Adamant_ with the loss of all twelve of her crew. The delegation led by Magister Terel had all survived, however. The papers and the 3V news featured stills and footage from Captain Doom’s attack on an air show some two years previously along with the terrible images of the _Adamant_ breaking up in mid-air and going down over the Pacific.  
  
The other major story was the overnight capture of Zoltar’s cousin, Sabine of Spectra, otherwise known as Agent S-9. President Kane and Secretary Claybourne had held an early morning press conference to crow and rub Zoltar’s nose in the news that an elite Galaxy Girl squad had been defeated by G-Force. Details, apparently, were ‘classified’ but there was talk of an explosion and a fire fight at Anderson’s residence overnight. Anderson’s neighbours, if the news reports were anything to go by, were well and truly disgruntled.  
  
Doom finished his coffee and read the financial pages. He was aware of Demmish’s discomfort and pushed it to the back of his mind. Demmish had a point, but Doom had felt irresistibly drawn to his old haunt. He wondered how many of the people he’d known were still active. He doubted they’d recognise him if they saw him. After all, he was supposed to be dead.  
  
Ramala had been thorough in her work. On Doom’s instructions, she had gone to Amano’s Bar the previous evening. She had sifted through the chatter and the gossip to settle on her targets, then she had moved in, allowing certain young men to engage in flirtation, never asking direct questions, drawing them out with tact and alcohol.  
  
She had reported to Doom that the hot topic of conversation among the clientele of Amano’s Bar was the Urgosian deal which had been triggered by none other than Security Chief Anderson. There was a climate of grudging admiration for the Chief of Staff, who was held to be a cold, ruthless individual with a mean streak a mile wide. ‘Too nasty to kill,’ seemed to be the general consensus. He had a crack protection detail making sure things stayed that way. Apparently, the squad members had been trained by G-Force and three of the women had killed one of Mala’s Galaxy Girls in an incident at a local restaurant some three nights ago.  
  
Ramala’s report contained some interesting information: it was rumoured that there was some kind of subterfuge planned for the signing of the non-aggression treaty. No details were forthcoming, but it seemed G-Sec was expecting the Spectrans to try another attack, and the security staff remained on edge.  
  
  
  
  
The Aston-Martin DB60 coupé was low-slung, high-powered, and finished in jet black with mirror tinted windows. It gleamed in the low light of the basement car park. It looked fast, even when standing still.  
  
“I’ll drive,” Anderson said, reaching for the car keys.  
  
“I don’t think so,” Jones corrected, moving the keyring out of reach. The keys jangled discordantly against the remote.  
  
“Al...”  
  
“You know the rules,” Jones said. “Even if you did disregard them this morning.”  
  
“So do you,” Anderson sniped, “and you still managed to get yourself tased last night.”  
  
“What was I supposed to do?” Jones asked. “Wait to be _rescued_? Bugger that for a game of soldiers! And I’m driving.”  
  
In the absence of any valid argument, Anderson merely glowered and Jones pretended to ignore him as she activated the remote to unlock the vehicle.  
  
Anderson got into the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. “You know I’m perfectly capable of driving to the Federal Complex,” he said as Jones settled into the driver’s seat.  
  
“Never said you weren’t,” Jones pointed out. She adjusted the rear-view mirror and the driver’s seat.  
  
“You know your trouble?”  
  
“My trouble,” Jones said, putting on her seat belt, “is sitting in the passenger seat of this car.” She started the engine.  
  
Anderson considered. “I’m the biggest problem you have?”  
  
Jones put the car in gear and began easing it out of the parking bay. “Death, taxes, war... _you_... Not much competition, is there?”  
  
Anderson gave Jones a speculative look. “I’m trying to decide whether I’m insulted or flattered.”  
  
“Let me know when you make up your mind,” Jones said.  
  
“Don’t worry, I will.”  
  
  
  
  
“Car,” Demmish said.  
  
Doom touched a tiny control on the frame of his sunglasses as the black Aston-Martin coupé emerged from the basement car park. The laser scopes feeding into the lenses did their work and offered him a fleeting monochrome image of the vehicle’s occupants behind the armoured tinting on the windows before Doom shut the scope down to avoid detection: the driver was a woman with pale hair, the passenger a man with a dark mane and a moustache. The man wore sunglasses, but there was no mistaking his identity.  
  
“It’s Anderson,” Doom said. “And a driver. A woman.”  
  
“I’m sending the signal to Ramala,” Demmish said.  
  
“Include my congratulations on a job well done. Let’s go.”  
  
“Do you think any of the scanners around here picked up the scope?” Demmish asked.  
  
“It was active for less than half a second,” Doom reasoned, “but let’s not wait around to find out.”  
  
  
  
  
Chief Anderson’s limousine was making smooth and steady progress across town. Anyone watching would have seen it pull up outside the Urgosian Embassy with another, almost identical vehicle travelling in convoy. They would have seen a tall man with dark red hair step out with a blonde woman in a tailored business suit, would have seen them greet the Urgosian delegation and escort them to the second limousine, where a uniformed protection detail ushered the diplomats inside. An observer would have seen Anderson and his liaison officer return to their car and seen both vehicles head toward Federation Square.  
  
“I still don’t like this,” Shay Alban muttered yet again. “One of us –”  
  
“Should have gone with the Chief,” Josh Maxwell finished for her. He’d lost count of the number of times she’d said it. “One of us did go with the Chief. The Colonel’s with him.”  
  
Alban glanced sharply at her 2IC, then relaxed. “I guess,” she said. “I know griping doesn’t change anything, but it makes me feel better. Of course, what would _really_ make me feel better would be if there were two regular squad members with them.”  
  
Maxwell chuckled. The paranoia, he decided, must come with the job. The limousine was rolling onto the freeway, and Alban was nervous about two things: that their ruse might work, and that their ruse might not work. “Boss, you shouldn’t worry. That car’s worth an extra man on its own!”  
  
Opposite the security officers, Jason and Princess sat, their attention focussed on their respective windows. Jason kept scratching his nose: the false moustache tickled.  
  
Princess had taken off her sunglasses and was unbuttoning her coat in the warm interior of the car. The long blonde wig rendered her almost unrecognisable. “Josh is right,” Princess said. “The Chief’s carrying plenty of firepower and you’ve all come a long way with your hand-to-hand combat in the last six months. Did you or did you not take down a Galaxy Girl in the middle of a crowded restaurant the other night?”  
  
“Oh, right,” Alban said. “Throw that in my face!”  
  
“Shay,” Princess said, “relax. Chief Anderson has a senior officer with him and Mark’s upstairs keeping an eye on all of us. Having you here makes this whole charade that much more believable. If you deployed any of the squad elsewhere it’d raise suspicion. It’s called ‘subterfuge’ for a reason.”  
  
“Yes, but –” Alban bit off her words and glared out the window. “Okay, subterfuge.”  
  
The alarm system began to buzz. “ _Alert. Unauthorised incoming traffic. Airborne vehicle. Unauthorised incoming traffic. Airborne vehicle. Alert. Unauth--_ ” Alban shut off the enunciator and consulted the screen, calling up a holographic display.  
  
“They’ve fallen for it,” she said. “Pete, did you copy that? Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said. His console showed an identical display. “Hold on tight. This is where we find out if the armour plating in these limos is worth what G-Sec shelled out for it.” The limousine accelerated and the vehicle behind it did likewise.  
  
“Great,” Jason said. He activated his wrist communicator. “Looks like we’ve drawn their fire. Hey, skipper, you picking up company?”  
  
“Yeah,” Mark replied. “Looks like the fun’s about to start. I’ve called Tiny. He’s on his way.”  
  
  
  
  
Now that the motorcade had left, a Galaxy Network News Outside Broadcast Van was packing up gear from its vantage spot outside the Urgosian Embassy. The crew jumped in and started the engine before driving away toward Federation Square.  
  
Nobody noticed that one member of the GNN team appeared to be a silver-haired woman in her seventies with ice blue eyes.  
  
  
  
  
Demmish had memorised the layout of the streets between the ISO Tower and the Federal Building. In the Mercedes SUV they’d hired, Demmish was able to pick up the black DB60 while Ramala, aboard the _Perlin_ , readied the black ship to track the official motorcade.  
  
Demmish tailed the coupé from a few car lengths back. At one stage, two cars changed lanes just before a red light and the SUV pulled up immediately behind the target, second back from the lights.  
  
Doom touched the control on his glasses again. The people inside the coupé appeared to be having an animated discussion about something. Doom studied the greyish image of the man in the passenger seat: David Anderson, he mused, certainly fit the image of the senior executive these days, rather than the idealistic young scientist he remembered. Doom felt an unfamiliar twinge of conscience. There was no going back from killing this man.  
  
A light on the sports car’s dashboard began to flash on and off. The driver glared into the rear-view mirror and made a quick movement as though activating a control. Doom snapped off the laser visor and caught his breath in alarm, cursing his carelessness in leaving the laser scope active for too long. “We’ve been made. The damned car must be fitted with a targeting detector!” He opened a channel on his communicator. “Ramala! They’re onto us!”

 

“ _I’m on my way, Captain!_ ” Ramala replied.  
  
The traffic signals were still red, but as the lights changed for the cross-traffic to allow another lane to turn, the coupé’s wheels spun and the Aston-Martin shot forward in a cloud of pungent blue smoke into the brief and rapidly-closing space afforded by the pause in the traffic flow.  
  
“Who puts a targeting detector in a god-damned _car_ for heaven’s sake?” Doom demanded.  
  
“Your brother, it would seem, Captain,” Demmish said. He trod heavily on the Mercedes’ accelerator in an attempt to follow, but the SUV lacked the speed and manoeuvrability of the smaller car. A sedan coming through the intersection from the opposite turning lane screeched to a halt in front of them and Demmish had to back up and drive around it.  
  
  
  
  
Throughout Center City, air raid sirens were sounding and civilians were hurrying to evacuate from apartments, shops and office blocks. The big blast doors of the civil defence shelters were open and officers of the Center City Police Department were shepherding people off the streets.  
  
Two black Galaxy Security limousines sped through the streets of Center City, running red lights and sending pedestrians scattering.  
  
Above and behind the motorcade flew the cause of the alarm, a sleek jet copter. The small aircraft was closing on its quarry. Khurz hung on to the grab rail and balanced in the doorway, hefting the grenade launcher on one muscular shoulder. “Steady, now, Fezzn!” he called to the pilot. “I’m going to line up the shot!”  
  
The sunroof on the leading limousine slid open. Khurz peered into the targeting viewfinder, only to nearly drop the weapon when the copter leapt like a startled horse.  
  
“ _Turbulence! Turbulence! Turbulence!_ ” the automatic warning declared as the pilot fought the controls.  
  
The _Phoenix_ roared overhead, her jet wakes throwing the copter around like white water tossing a canoe. The Spectrans hung on to whatever handholds they could find.  
  
Below, Jason lined up his target, squeezed the trigger and watched with grim satisfaction as the burly man with the grenade launcher let go of the weapon and toppled from the copter, dead before he hit the ground.  
  
The pilot struggled to maintain control as the _Phoenix_ banked majestically above the skyline and lined up for another run. Bullets from Jason’s gun thumped and tore through the lightweight aluminium fuselage and smoke began to pour from the engine.  
  
The jet copter lost height and began to auto-rotate as the pilot attempted an emergency landing. It ploughed into the middle of an intersection and slid about fifty yards up the street, coming to an untidy stop as Jason dropped back into his seat and closed the sunroof. The Galaxy Security motorcade sped away.  
  
  
  
  
“Damn damn damn _damn DAMN!_ ” Tyres squealed and horns sounded as Alberta Jones sent the Aston-Martin hurtling through gaps in the traffic.  
  
“Don’t hold back,” Anderson quipped from the depths of his seat. His seatbelt had automatically tensioned to keep him firmly strapped in when Jones had hit the ‘pursuit’ button, which was a non-standard feature on the DB-series.  
  
“Did Zark give you an ETA for backup?” Jones asked, ignoring Anderson’s barb.  
  
“They’ve been diverted to a downed Spectran jet copter,” Anderson said. The seat belt wouldn’t allow him to twist in his seat and look back. “How are we doing?”  
  
“Left them back at the last intersection,” Jones said, “but I’m not about to slow down just yet.”  
  
“Enjoying the change of pace?” Anderson couldn’t help but goad.  
  
“Oh, sod off and let me drive this thing, will you?”  
  
Anderson hung on to the grab handle with one hand. “You never used to speak to me like this when you were my security coordinator.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.” Jones overtook two more vehicles and narrowly missed hitting a bicycle courier.  
  
“I like you better this way.”  
  
“Oh, jolly good,” Jones snapped. “Let’s get chased and shot at more often to stimulate a full and frank exchange of views then, shall we?”  
  
“Al?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We aren’t being shot at,” Anderson pointed out.  
  
“ _Yet_!” Jones predicted darkly.  
  
“You’re such a pessimist,” Anderson said as the car careened around a corner.  
  
“And you’ll note that you’re still alive to complain about it!” Jones glanced in the rear-view mirror. In the distance, a figure leaned out of one window of the pursuing Mercedes SUV and balanced a long black tube on one shoulder. Jones’ mouth went dry. “Oh, _bugger_ ,” she said, slammed her foot on the brake pedal and wrenched the steering wheel to one side. In a squeal of tyres, the Galaxy Security DB60 careened down a side street against a ‘ONE WAY’ sign.  
  
The rocket-propelled grenade intended for the sports car hit a pillar box and blew it up in breach of the Federal Postal Services Act.  
  
“Okay,” Anderson conceded. “So you were right about the shooting.”  
  
“Kit bag in the rear foot well,” Jones said as she hit the control releasing Anderson from his harness. “It’s loaded.”  
  
Anderson twisted around and unzipped the bag. “Al,” he said, “I remember now why I like working with you. This could be love.” He lifted out the LX-20 laser-guided heavy assault rifle.  
  
“Sometimes,” Jones said, “a big sexy gun is just a big sexy gun. Don’t read too much into it.” She pressed another control and the rear window retracted, leaving a faint shimmer in the air.  
  
“Is that a one-way force field?” Anderson asked.  
  
“Captured Spectran tech,” Jones said. “Doctor Kew from R and D was quite excited about it. Frankly, I think he needs to get out more.”  
  
“I have _so_ got to trade my sedan up for one of these,” Anderson muttered, leaning on the centre console and taking aim with the gun.  
  
“Remember,” Jones cautioned, “the force field throws your aim out by a smidge and the recoil on the LX‑20’s a right bastard. It’s set to short bursts. Try not to let the muzzle come up as you fire, won’t you? The car’s armoured, and shrapnel makes such an awful mess in a confined space.”  
  
“So noted,” Anderson said.  
  
The Mercedes took the corner on two wheels and settled back onto the road with a thump. Captain Doom readjusted the RPG launcher and took aim. His eyes widened as he focussed through the scope and saw the red flare of an ISO LX-20 targeting laser aiming back at him.  
  
“ _Shit!_ ” he exclaimed. As Doom pulled the trigger on his weapon, so did the Chief of Galaxy Security. Demmish swung the van hard left. Doom’s shot went wide and blew up the armoured window of a bank branch, setting off numerous alarms.  
  
Security Chief Anderson also missed, but not by much. A torrent of rounds had slammed into the pavement, torn open the rear passenger quarter panel of the SUV and shredded the right rear tyre.  
  
The Mercedes yawed, tilted and came perilously close to rolling but Demmish managed to keep it upright as it skidded to an untidy halt up against a lamp post on three tyres and the smoking remains of one rim.  
  
“Captain,” Demmish said, “are you all right?”  
  
Doom leaned back into his seat. “I think I may have underestimated my little brother,” he said. “I honestly never thought I’d see him open fire on me like that!” Through the open window, he could hear the sound of a jet engine. He twisted and looked up to see the G-1 closing from above. “Abandon the vehicle!” he ordered. The two men leapt out of the SUV.  
  
“Come on!” Doom urged. He and Demmish ran for their lives as tracer fire zipped, bright and deadly, down from the sky. The Mercedes erupted in flames and the G-1 Jet screamed overhead.  
  
Demmish stumbled, the fabric of his right trouser leg blossoming with dark blood. “Shrapnel, Captain!” Demmish gasped.  
  
“Come on, old friend,” Doom urged. He took the injured man’s weight on his shoulder and the group scrambled into an alley, where they took refuge behind some large cardboard cartons piled up for discard.  
  
“What now, Captain?” Demmish asked.  
  
“We’ll steal a car,” Doom said. “Something fast. We’ll keep close to the buildings. That jet can’t get a clear shot at us down here,” he said, scanning the rooftops, “not without causing a lot of collateral damage, and that isn’t G‑Force’s style, not here on their precious Planet Earth.” He activated his comm. “Ramala, where are you?”  
  
_“Tracking Anderson’s car, Captain,”_ came the reply.  _“I’m lining up to attack.”_  
  
“Can you see the G-Force jet?”  
  
_“It seems to have disappeared,”_ Ramala said. _“It seems I didn’t need to attack the motorcade after all. The Spectrans are mounting an attack of their own. G‑Force are probably responding to that.”  
_  
“Let’s hope so,” Doom said. “Don’t worry about us. Find that damned car and take it out!” He turned to Demmish. “Let’s find another ride and retrieve my biplane! I knocked G-Force out of the sky once before. I can do it again.”  
  
  
  
  
“See?” Jones remarked. “Size does matter.”  
  
Anderson engaged the safety catch on the LX-20 and massaged his right shoulder. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Ballistics,” Jones said. “What did you think I meant?”  [8]  
  
Anderson put the gun down on the rear seat then turned back to tap a control on the dash. “Zark, what’s the status of the Urgosian delegation?” he asked.  
  
On the dashboard screen, 7-Zark-7’s image flashed its facial LEDs. _“My scanners have detected them safe at the civil defence shelter in Federation Square, Chief! The official motorcade isn’t far behind.”_  
  
“Thanks, Zark,” Anderson said. “We’ll keep heading for Federation Square. Can you get us there, Al?”  
  
“Possibly even in one piece,” Jones said, and flung the car around a corner, leaving a thin layer of smoking rubber on the road.  
  
“Um, Al?” Anderson said once they were travelling more-or-less in a straight line again.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nobody’s chasing us.”  
  
“ _Yet_ ,” she said.  
  
  
  
  
Ramala scanned the city streets. After more than two years of war, the populace of Center City was used to evacuating and responding to air raids. Vehicles were drawn up on the sides of roads and there were no pedestrians abroad. Movement caught her eye and Ramala turned the black ship _Perlin_ toward it.  
  
Yes! There below was the Aston-Martin, still racing as though the occupants’ lives depended on it... not that it would help. Ramala activated the missile targeting system, and gasped when her own screen turned red with a missile lock warning.  
  
_“Enemy ship, this is G-Force. Stand down. Deactivate your weapons systems or be destroyed. This is your first and final warning.”_  
  
_Perlin_ ’s radar showed the G-1 jet lined up for an attack run, while ahead on the main screen was the bulk of the _Phoenix_. Ramala made a decision and hit the emergency warp drive.  
  
  
  
  
“Aaagh!” Tiny’s fist hit the console. “That’s the second time they’ve done that! Mark, did you see?”  
  
_“I saw it,”_ Mark said. _“An emergency time warp jump to who-knows-where. At least they aren’t lining the Chief up in their sights any more. Stay alert and climb to one thousand feet. I’m going to dock.”_  
  
  
  
  
The G-1 jet docked with the _Phoenix_ and Mark made his way to the bridge. “Where are Jason and Princess?” he asked.  
  
“Still playing pretend,” Keyop said as he slipped out of the co-pilot’s seat to make way for Mark.  
  
“Have our people picked up the Spectrans from that downed jet copter?” Mark asked.  
  
Keyop sat down at his own station and consulted his screen. “The copter was empty when the squad got there,” he reported. “Uniforms retrieved the body of the guy Jason shot but we’ve still got an unknown number of bad guys down there. The copter had a max capacity of six, so we could have up to five hostiles in the wind.”  
  
“That’s as may be,” Tiny said, “but I’m pretty sure the wind’s blowing straight for Federation Square.”  
  
“I’d put my money on you over a dozen weather forecasters, Tiny,” Mark said. “Let’s fly a standard search pattern over the city to see if we can pick up any of our bad guys, then our next stop’s going to be Federation Square.”  
  
  
  
  
Ahgus stopped behind a parked truck and cast an eye over his remaining crew. With Khurz dead, there were only three men left. For all her fearsome reputation, S-9 had gone and got herself captured, the haughty bitch, and that left Ahgus carrying the can as the senior surviving officer. He tried not to think about the survival aspect of the mission. Whilst success might still be possible, Ahgus didn’t hold out much hope that he might be able to walk away. From the grim expressions on the faces of his comrades, Ahgus could guess that Erno and Fezzn had come to similar conclusions.  
  
“The G-Force ship seems to have disappeared,” Erno said. “I can still hear engines but they seem a way off.”  
  
The pilot Fezzn rotated his injured left shoulder again. He was favouring his left foot as well. “I’d say we’re closer to Federation Square than whatever it is we’re hearing.”  
  
“You know the maps better than any of us,” Ahgus said with a shrug. “How far to the square from here?”  
  
“Only one more block,” Fezzn said. He shifted his weight on the good leg. “I’m not going to be much use in a fight, Ahgus.”  
  
“You can still shoot, though,” Ahgus said.  
  
“I can, at that,” Fezzn agreed.  
  
“Let’s find a spot,” Ahgus said. “All we need is line of sight.”  
  
  
  
  
The two armoured limousines pulled up outside the Federal Building. Jason leaned forward and peered out of the window. “There’s the GNN van,” he observed.  
  
“Where’s the Chief?” Shay Alban asked.  
  
“Still _en-route_ ,” Princess said. “Relax, Shay. Zark says they’re fine.”  
  
“And you believe what Zark tells you?” Alban asked.  
  
“Of course,” Princess said. “Why wouldn’t I?” She pulled down the sun visor and checked her appearance in the mirror. “I’ll never get used to the idea of me as a blonde,” she said. “Okay, I guess we’re on.” She cast a disapproving glance at Jason’s damaged overcoat. “Honestly, Jase, you look like something the cat dragged in.”  
  
“That’s not the problem,” Jason said. “You know what the problem is?”  
  
“No,” Alban said, “but I have a feeling you’re about to tell us.”  
  
“The problem is that in less than twenty-four hours’ work, I’ve managed to make the _Chief_ look like a total badass!”  
  
“Get out of the car, already,” Alban grumbled.  
  
Princess paused in the act of reaching for the door handle when her communicator sounded. “Ears on,” she said.  
  
_“This is 7-Zark-7. My scanners have detected a group of three hostiles on the roof of the old Court House building. They’re carrying assault rifles.”_  
  
“Are they in position to attack?” Princess asked.  
  
_“Not yet, Princess,”_ Zark replied _. “They’ve just accessed the roof space and are heading toward the parapet!”_  
  
“Suits me fine,” Princess said, and leapt from the car.  
  
“Hey!” Jason exclaimed. “Wait up!”  
  
Princess had already transmuted to battle mode and was running. Jason activated his own transformer and sprinted after his team-mate.  
  
Shay Alban and Josh Maxwell exchanged glances. Captain Maxwell shrugged. “Kids these days,” he said.  
  
Alban stepped out of the car. “Come on, Josh. We might not be as fast on our feet as those two but we’d better get moving.”  
  
Princess was almost to the roof.  
  
The old Court House had a multitude of window ledges and a series of flag poles that made scaling the exterior easy as long as you were a cerebonically-enhanced and highly trained member of G-Force. When Princess vaulted over the parapet onto the roof, three Spectrans skidded to a halt.  
  
“You could try opening fire,” Princess said. She spun her yo-yo in the air and caught it again. “Guess what would happen next?”  
  
The rifles hit the roof with a clatter and the three Spectrans raised their hands. “We surrender,” Ahgus said.  
  
Jason leapt over the parapet, rolled, and stopped in a low crouch with his gun at the ready before registering that the Spectrans weren’t going to attack. “What the heck?” he said.  
  
“You’re not the only badass in this town, mister,” Princess said with a grin.  
  
  
  
  
“You want me to _hide_?” Tiny asked.  
  
_“I want you to pick up the rest of the team, then hold position until you receive my signal,”_ Chief Anderson corrected. _“Captain Doom is still at large and you have no defence against those indestructible whip weapons of his. You all know what you have to do.”_  
  
On the roof of the old Court House, handing over their prisoners to Major Alban and Lieutenant Maxwell, Princess and Jason shrugged. “We’d better rendezvous with the others,” Jason said.  
  
“Gotta fly,” Princess said, and the two G-Force members ran and leapt from the building.  
  
“I can never get used to that,” Alban muttered.  
  
“Try it from where we’re standing,” Ahgus grumbled.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Maxwell told him. “We’ll be taking the stairs.”  
  
  
  
  
“That just leaves the Urgosians,” Anderson said, closing the channel on his palm unit.  
  
“Oh that’s all right then,” Jones said, as she guided the Aston-Martin to a parking spot beside the steps of the Federal Building. “ _Just_ the Urgosians, one of whom just happens to be a former top G-Sec agent, dread pirate and long lost family member. It’ll be a walk in the park!”  
  
“And you were doing so well,” Anderson said. “Come on, Al. Admit it: part of you thought it was a buzz.”  
  
“I admit nothing,” Jones said and shut the engine down. “I’m not an adrenaline junkie.”  
  
“No-one could ever accuse you of that.”  
  
“Just because I let you use my gun,” Jones said, but she was being careful not to smile.  
  
“And for a while there I thought you cared,” Anderson quipped. He turned to open the door of the car, but Jones laid a hand on his arm.  
  
“In all seriousness,” Jones said, “if the situation gets out of hand, promise me you’ll follow the exit strategy.”  
  
Anderson leaned in and held up a warning finger. “And you promise me you’ll keep your head down.”  
  
“I will as long as your plan works,” Jones hedged.  
  
“It will. I know Jay. His sense of the theatrical always wins out. Just try and remember that your job title is Liaison and Protocol, _not_ Big Damn Hero,” Anderson said.  
  
“All I did last night was try to defend myself! I wasn’t terribly successful at it either, if you recall.”  
  
“I reviewed Zark’s surveillance feed. You held your own against an elite Galaxy Girl for…”  
  
“About three seconds,” Jones said.  
  
“Actually, it was closer to seven. I think I’ll always treasure the memory of your face the moment you tased yourself.”  
  
Jones glared. “So help me, David Anderson…”  
  
“See? You do care.”  
  
“I’m not having this conversation with you!”  
  
“We could have the conversation where I assign you a protection detail,” Anderson suggested.  
  
“Where you _what_?”  
  
“I deliberately told Secretary Claybourne that _G-Force_ took down Agent S-9, so that’s what the media were told. If it ever gets out that you were the one who pushed the button on that taser, Mala could decide to come gunning for you. She might come gunning for you anyway since you were involved in taking down one of her junior operatives at the restaurant the other night. I’m thinking of assigning you a protection detail just in case.”  
  
Jones paled. “You wouldn’t!”  
  
“Try me,” Anderson said.  
  
“I’ll… keep my head down,” Jones said in a small voice.  
  
“Yes,” Anderson said. “Yes, you will.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
8.  Jones is over-simplifying things. Size does matter, but so does the number of lead grains and the nasty little tungsten core in the multi-purpose projectile fired by the ISO LX-20  [9] heavy assault rifle, which can be very unpleasant if you happen to meet one travelling at speed out of said LX-20. (Don’t try this at home.) Jones knows this perfectly well but if she has to choose between being pedantic about ammunition or yanking Anderson’s chain, she’ll reach for that chain every time. It should be noted that Anderson makes similar choices when it comes to chain-yanking. Everyone needs a hobby, and it’s always nicer if you have a friend to share it with

9.  The ISO LX-20 heavy assault rifle is a bigger, nastier gun than the standard ISO LX-12 assault rifle. It’s not the sort of gun you’d take with you if you intend to be running around a lot due to its size and weight, but if you’re going to take it somewhere and lie in wait for your opponent, fire it out of a vehicle as Security Chief Anderson does, or even mount it on a tripod, it’s very useful indeed. Nastier still is the ISO LX‑50 which is a BFG that has to be vehicle-mounted or heavy tripod-mounted and takes at least two people to carry and set up. If someone shoots you with an LX-12 or an LX-20, you’ll be history. If someone shoots you with an LX-50, you’ll be geography as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Auribus_ _teneo lupum –_ I hold a wolf by the ears. (Terence)**

 

_In the animal kingdom, carnivores can be loosely classified along two major lines: predators and scavengers. Predators have minds like knives. Their focus and intent is channelled down into one hard, bright, razor-sharp edge and it is this that makes them dangerous. Regardless of external considerations, the true predator runs its prey down to the kill, ruthless and relentless, giving no quarter and asking none. Scavengers, on the other hand, are wily, canny creatures who use their wits to rob those finely attuned predators of their hard-won quarry. Ill-equipped for fighting to the death, they must attempt to balance their lack of armament with their use of tactics instead.  
  
There is a third, even more dangerous group: the carnivore who is both predator and scavenger, the adaptable one with the weaponry to kill, the guile to steal, and the intelligence to choose.  
  
These creatures are called pirates.  
  
Human beings like to think we’ve evolved, but we too have our predators, our scavengers and our pirates.  
  
They may often be found working for the government._

  
  
  
  
The demolition site was an untidy jumble of building rubble, demountable offices and temporary fencing. The site had been deserted for several months since Galaxy Security’s forensic accountants had uncovered the contractor’s ties with another company which turned out to be just a little too cosy with its contacts in the Crab Nebula, which in turn meant the site never got turned into a secret Spectra base. Galaxy Security had chalked it up as a win. The Mayor’s office wasn’t nearly as enthused as they now had an abandoned building site to deal with and nobody to pay the taxes. (Mayor McNamara was inclined to bill Galaxy Security, but Chief Anderson wasn’t returning His Honour’s calls.)  
  
For Captain Doom, it made a perfect hiding place for his ship. While Demmish applied the contents of the first aid kit to his injured leg, Doom cleared away the plywood and canvas that he’d used to cover the attack ship, which bore the appearance of an antique biplane. Unlike its wooden-framed ancestors with their skins made of canvas and dope, however, this machine had been constructed from high-grade ceramalloy and was armed with flexible whip weapons made from indestructible urgosium. It had a force field to shield its pilot and could transform into a comfortable one-man speedster capable of interstellar flight.  
  
The _Perlin_ flew in low with her stealth systems active to avoid radar and landed in a clear spot in the shadow of a pile of steel girders. The engines wound down, the hatch opened and Ramala disembarked, her frustration plain in the way she stormed down the ramp.  
  
“They were ready and waiting for us!” she spat angrily. “Those damned Spectrans had Galaxy Security at high alert with their bumbling attempts at assassination!” She strode across to assist Doom as he prepared his ship for take-off.  
  
“Don’t feel too bad about it,” Doom said. “We didn’t do any better. Turns out my little brother’s more than capable of defending himself. Maybe he was actually paying attention when I was trying to teach him how to keep himself alive all those years ago!” Doom chuckled, then sobered. “How much fuel are you carrying?”  
  
“Enough to get us to the Proxima station at low warp,” Ramala said. “We could still provide backup and steal some fuel, or even steal another ship.”  
  
“No,” Doom said. “Demmish is injured. I want you to take him aboard _Perlin_ and get yourselves to the Proxima Space Station for medical attention. That’s an order, _Praefecta_.”  
  
“Aye, Captain,” Ramala conceded. “Good hunting, sir.”  
  
“Never doubt it,” Doom said.  
  
  
  
  
The _Phoenix_ was lurking in a lazy orbit high above the city. She would have been a speck in the sky if anyone could have stared into the sun for long enough to see her without getting their retinas fried to a crisp.  
  
On the bridge, Jason paced restlessly back and forth behind the pilot consoles.  
  
“Will you please sit down?” Princess asked.  
  
“Let the man grieve, Princess,” Mark said.  
  
“What do you mean?” Princess asked.  
  
“As I understand it,” Mark said, “Jason’s badass longcoat got destroyed when you two transmuted back at Federation Square. A truly tragic loss of a really cool and functional fashion accessory.” He laid a hand over his heart. “It will be missed.”  
  
“Very funny,” Jason snarled as Keyop and Tiny chuckled. “It’s waiting that I don’t like.”  
  
“None of us like it,” Mark pointed out. “Sit down, Jason.”  
  
“Okay!” Jason flung himself into his seat. “Happy?”  
  
“Overjoyed,” Mark retorted.  
  
“Why don’t I go and check the cargo bay –?” Jason began, but Mark held up a hand.  
  
“When the Chief gives the word, I want us all on the bridge and ready to deploy. The cargo’s been checked.”  
  
“So what’s happening at the Square?” Jason asked.  
  
“The Urgosians are inside the Federal Building,” Princess said. “They’re either in the shelter or in one of the big meeting rooms, signing that non-aggression pact.”  
  
“So we’ve won?” Tiny inferred. “Why are we still on alert if we won?”  
  
“Because unlike Zoltar and his all-singing, all-dancing goons, my long-lost and unlamented parent isn’t here to stop the signing of the pact,” Jason growled. “He’s here for _revenge_. He wants the Chief first and us second.”  
  
“Huh!” Keyop folded his arms. “We never would have gone anywhere near his stupid base if he hadn’t attacked that air show first!”  
  
“Yeah, well I never said the guy wasn’t a nut job,” Jason said. He ignored the look Mark gave him.  
  
“Bogey,” Princess announced, all business. “Small aircraft, coming in fast from the south-east. No transponder return. It’s got to be Captain Doom.”  
  
“And it’s not that little black thing he used to take down the Urgosian cruiser, either,” Keyop added. “The computer’s just matched it up with a known profile. It’s that crazy biplane with the whips!”  
  
“Oh, great!” Tiny declared. “I’m gonna get my bird sliced up again!”  
  
“Not if the plan works, Tiny,” Mark said. “We stay up here and wait.” He caught Jason’s gaze and held it for a moment. “You sure you’re up for this?”  
  
“No doubt at all, skipper,” Jason said. “It isn’t even personal.”  
  
  
  
  
“Acknowledged,” Anderson said and closed the channel. He slipped his palm unit into his pocket and turned to Lieutenant Colonel Jones and Major Alban. “He’s closing. In that biplane of his, no less.”  
  
“You can’t say the man has no style,” Alban conceded. “Admittedly, it’s the kind of style that belongs in a padded cell, but style nonetheless.”  
  
“You can say that again,” Anderson agreed. He turned and made another visual check of Federation Square. Behind them, the black Galaxy Security vans which had been parked in the square for most of the day were standing open and a group of security officers were conducting tests on some equipment which was now connected by heavy cables to the communications pit where a group of Galaxy Security technicians in counterfeit GalaxyTel uniforms had been installing some non-standard technology a few days earlier. Several large items had been dragged out of the van and were positioned behind Anderson. “Get ready!” Anderson called out to his staff. “Power on, Captain Maxwell.”  
  
Josh Maxwell threw a switch and a low whine rose in pitch until it was outside the range of normal hearing. “We’re in the green, sir!” Maxwell announced.  
  
“This had better work,” Jones said quietly, so that only Anderson and Alban heard her.  
  
“Amen to that,” Alban muttered.  
  
The low roar of an engine drew the gazes of the Galaxy Security personnel skyward as a black dot resolved itself into what appeared to be a biplane designed by a Goth in need of some heavy-duty medication. Or possibly someone who looked to Zoltar of Spectra for inspiration.  
  
“Here we go,” Anderson murmured, squaring his shoulders. “Come on, Jay. Come on in and have your big bad villain scene. You know you want to.”  
  
Doom’s biplane descended, its guns trained on the people in the square, whips coiled and ready to strike. The roar of the propulsion engine died away and the propeller spun down as the pilot switched to antigrav drive. The biplane assumed a quietly humming stationary hover some four metres above the pavement. Captain Doom stood atop the vehicle like an old-fashioned wing-walker, his expression unreadable under the mask he wore.  
  
“Surrender,” he said, “or die.”  
  
David Anderson stood staring up at the man on top of the biplane, flanked by Alberta Jones at his right and Shay Alban at his left. Alban was cradling the LX-20 in her arms while Jones held a smaller LX-12 assault rifle. The Chief of Galaxy Security appeared to be unarmed.  
  
“I don’t like either of those choices,” Anderson said. “I’ll take Option C: none of the above.”  
  
“You fool,” Doom said. “Do you really think I won’t kill you?”  
  
“I really think you won’t kill me, Jay,” Anderson said. “I have to tell you, Sorcha’s finally going to be proud of you. She always wanted one of us to follow her onto the stage, and it’s turned out to be you. I mean, Gran’s literally a diva but _this_! This whole Captain Doom thing really takes the cake!”  
  
Doom stood silent, shocked into immobility. After a moment, he let his breath out and folded his arms. “How’d you find out, Davey?”  
  
Anderson shrugged. “You know. Spy shit.”  
  
Doom reached up and pulled off the horned death’s-head mask and wig off. Untidy auburn hair streaked with grey framed a pale and far-too-youthful face with the same underlying bone structure as that of his sibling. “So,” James Anderson said. “What now, little brother?”  
  
“This is the part where I arrest you,” David Anderson said.  
  
James spread his arms wide and turned slightly to the left and right to survey the scene. “You seem to have overlooked the fact that I’m the one with the big scary weapons and a force field around my ship. You’ve got… let’s see: a blonde and a redhead with some halfway decent firepower that still won’t make a dent in my force field. I mean, don’t get me wrong; it’s a great look for you, but you don’t expect me to take you seriously, do you?”  
  
David Anderson didn’t react to his brother’s goad. “Given what you know about me, Jay, what does all this suggest to you?”  
  
“That you’re bluffing,” James Anderson concluded. “Do you really think I won’t kill you after everything that’s happened? You think that _brotherly love_ is going to keep me from destroying you now?”  
  
The Urgosium whips lashed out toward their target, only to bounce off a second force field and recoil back toward the biplane. The whips crashed into the biplane’s shields and slithered downward with a hiss and rattle of finely worked metal.  
  
“No,” David Anderson said. “I think this force field is going to keep you from destroying me. I stopped putting much faith in brotherly love a while back.” Anderson pulled his palm unit from his pocket and tapped at the device.  
  
A roar of jets heralded the arrival of the _Phoenix_ which took up a hovering position at roughly five hundred feet above the ground, astern James Anderson’s biplane.  
  
“I see your antique freak show,” David Anderson said, “and raise you one G-Force command ship.”  
  
“You forget,” James said. “I’ve downed the _Phoenix_ before.”  
  
“I remember,” David corrected. “And you of all people ought to know that I learn from my mistakes.”  
  
Four winged figures leapt from the _Phoenix_ ’s dorsal dome. They glided away from each other while a hatch opened in the command ship’s belly. Five drones, each about the size of a large suitcase, flew out, four allowing a heavy silver net to spread out between them with the fifth supporting the net at its centre.  
  
Mark, Jason, Princess and Keyop arced away from each other and followed the drones earthward, aiming for the Urgosian biplane. Each of them took hold of a dangling guide rope as the drones and their cargo descended. At the last possible moment, the drones released the net, which draped over the biplane, curving up like a shining chain-link bubble over the force field. The drones gained altitude and returned to the _Phoenix.  
_  
Mark touched down and hauled his cable over to one of the newly-installed bollards. He plugged the cable into the jack, rotated the cam to lock it in place then ran toward Security Chief Anderson as Jason, Princess and Keyop did the same with the other lines trailing away from the net.  
  
The four youngsters took up positions in front of Doom’s biplane, between the two force fields, ready to dodge at a moment’s notice.  
  
James had been watching the activity with a cynical smile. He folded his arms. “Very pretty. Was that some kind of sky-diving display?” he asked. “The G-Force equivalent of synchronized swimming, maybe? What was it supposed to achieve?”  
  
Jason turned and looked up toward the sound of Captain Doom’s voice. He focused on James Anderson’s face for the first time and froze, his breath catching in his throat.  
  
It was like looking into a mirror. A distorted mirror, but a mirror nonetheless.  
  
Jason turned back toward his Chief of Staff. “This jerk is my father?” he spat.  
  
Captain Doom – James Anderson – turned his regard on the angry young man in the dark-winged combat gear.  
  
David Anderson threw an exasperated glare in Jason’s direction. “Was the whole ‘secret identity’ thing boring you or something?”  
  
Jason returned the glare with interest. “This guy is my father!”  
  
“Could we maybe have the family conference _after_ we arrest him?” Anderson suggested.  
  
“My son is G-2?” James Anderson said, incredulous. His pallid face darkened with rage and an accusing finger pointed at his younger sibling. “You sent him to destroy my base! He killed my wife and daughter!”  
  
“Oh, we’re going to do this now, are we?” David Anderson asked. “Seriously? _Now_?”  
  
“Enough!” James Anderson declared. “I’ve had enough of this game of yours!”  
  
“Yeah, me too,” David Anderson snarled. “Fire ‘em up! G-Force! Flank him!”  
  
The security officers threw four big switches on the equipment behind Anderson while Mark and Princess darted to the left of the biplane; Jason and Keyop to the right, putting distance between themselves and the hovering machine.  
  
The net and its cables over Doom’s biplane began to spark and coruscate.  
  
“You idiot!” James Anderson shouted. “My force field’s going to burn those cables up like paper! And even if you’ve managed to reinforce them I’ll just pull them straight out of the ground or snap them like cotton with my urgosium whips!”  
  
“I thought you’d say something like that,” David Anderson called back. “Why don’t you give it a try?”  
  
The biplane wobbled and alarms began to sound. The net and cables were sparking and flaring with energy as power drained and surged. The force field began to shimmer, glowing a sickly red where the cables touched it.  
  
“What the hell have you done?” James Anderson roared.  
  
“You’re not the only one who figured out how to work urgosium, Jay,” David Anderson said, raising his voice to be heard over the snapping and hissing of the overloaded force field. “Those cables are made from urgosium with gold and titanium cores for maximum conductivity. They’re plugged into Center City’s power grid and they’re grounding your force field. Your ship will burn up before those cables do. Go ahead. Try the whips. There’s nothing wrong with _my_ force field and G-Force are too fast for you. All you’ll do is knock yourself out of the air with the recoil!”  
  
Sparks flew from the biplane as its systems began to fail. Wisps of acrid smoke drifted up from behind panels as circuits shorted. The force field was collapsing and James Anderson stared up at the flaming, spitting net over his head. He ran along the wing of the plane and looked down at the four-meter drop. The biplane lurched and he lost his balance as the force field finally died and the heavy urgosium net began to fall.  
  
James Anderson plummeted toward the golden sandstone pavers of Federation Square. He wondered if the impact would be enough to kill him if he landed the right way.  
  
Mark was already in the air. He caught James and his forward momentum carried them both clear of the wallowing, sparking biplane, touching down just short of the Security Chief’s force field.  
  
“Josh, deactivate the force field!” David Anderson ordered, “G-Force! To me!”  
  
Mark dragged James Anderson forward as the others overtook him, racing through where the force field had been as the biplane’s antigrav died and it dropped like a stone.  
  
Above, the _Phoenix_ ’s thrusters screamed as Tiny Harper put the command ship into an emergency climb.  
  
“Reactivate the force field!” Anderson snapped. Instinctively, the security staff clustered closer together.  
  
The biplane collapsed onto the ground with a “WHUMP!” and folded in on itself like a broken insect. The conductive net and its cables covered it, sizzling and sparking sporadically.  
  
“Where’s the ‘kaboom?’” Keyop wondered aloud. When the wreckage crackled, popped, hissed and finally gave up the ghost with a gurgle and an incontinent puddle of coolant, the boy put his hands on his hips.  “Well that’s just plain disappointing,” he declared.  
  
_“Don’t mind me,”_ Tiny said over Keyop’s communicator. “ _I’m the one who would have had to ride the shock wave if that thing had gone up.”_  
  
“Sorry, Tiny,” Keyop said.  
  
Captain Doom was kneeling on the pavement. The security officers had disarmed him, confiscated his overcoat and were in the process of handcuffing him.  
  
Jason stalked over to him and made eye contact as Shay Alban hauled the prisoner to his feet.  
  
“Did you know?” James Anderson demanded. “Did you know you were killing your own sister?”  
  
“Didn’t even know I had one,” Jason said. He circled his father as he spoke, his voice dripping contempt. “The raid on Urgos was a job. We didn’t know that you’d housed civilians inside a military base. I regret the loss of life that occurred. Don’t lose sight of the reason _why_ we were there. It was because you attacked a civilian air show. Do you regret the loss of life that happened there? Those people were mothers too. Daughters, sisters, fathers, sons, brothers. Their lives were worth no more and no less than the lives of your family, but it didn’t stop you from killing them. I have to live with my conscience, but given your history, I doubt that you have one.”  
  
“Don’t pretend to know me, boy,” James snarled.  
  
“I don’t,” Jason said. “I don’t care if you’re a stand-up guy who only kills and steals for a hobby. I know you’re a traitor and I know what you’ve _done_. I don’t need to know why and I sure don’t need to stick around and listen to you whine about it.”  
  
Jason turned on his heel and stalked away, his cape wings swirling around his calves.  
  
James Anderson looked down at his boots, fists clenched behind his back in the restraints, his chest rising and falling with each angry, helpless breath.  
  
David Anderson let his breath out in a long sigh of relief. “Okay, Josh, deactivate the force field and shut everything down. Al, have Zark get a clean-up crew out here. Start sounding the all-clear but keep this area cordoned off until further notice. No media. Mark, take your team and supervise a custody crew to transport Captain Doom and the other prisoners to ISO Powell. I’ll have Deputy Chief Galbraith conduct Doom’s debriefing and interrogation personally. Shay, round up the squad. I have to explain all of this to President Kane and Secretary Claybourne.”  
  
“I’ve escaped from worse captors than you, David,” James boasted in a last show of defiance as Mark walked over to lead him away.  
  
“No,” David Anderson said sadly. “I don’t think you have. Major James Lachlann Anderson, you are under arrest. Your rights and the preliminary charges will be read to you by your custodial officer. Commander, you have your prisoner.”  
  
“Let’s go,” Mark said. “Under the Galaxy Security Act and the Piracy Act, you don’t have a whole lot of rights, so reading ‘em to you won’t take long.”  
  
  
  
  
The 3V news showed President Kane and Magister Terel smiling and shaking hands over the newly signed non-aggression pact.  
  
Jason flung himself down on one of the sofas in Chief Anderson’s office and glared at the darkening view of Center City through the violet tint of his visor as though daring it to do something he didn’t like. The city lights were shining and traffic was flowing again.  
  
“I suppose you expect me to apologise for blurting out that Doom’s my father,” Jason said.  
  
Anderson, who had followed Jason into the office, settled in on the sofa opposite and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “It wasn’t exactly the smartest thing you’ve ever done,” Anderson said, “but I think you’re probably aware of that.”  
  
“If he escapes, he takes my not-so-secret identity with him,” Jason admitted grudgingly.  
  
“Pretty much,” Anderson agreed. “So, we have to make sure he doesn’t escape with the information. And he’s good at escaping.”  
  
“Are you going to kill him to protect me?” Jason asked, meeting Anderson’s gaze and holding it.  
  
“There’s a way to go before that becomes a consideration,” Anderson said.  
  
“But Galbraith’s probably already done the math,” Jason said.  
  
“I’d expect no less of Doctor Galbraith,” Anderson said. “However, thorough contingency planning does not a murderer make. We have other options open to us.”  
  
“Like what?” Jason asked. “Lobotomy?”  
  
“If it came to that or execution, which do you think would be the preferred choice?” Anderson parried. “No, there are certain drugs which can affect short term memory retention. With the right chemical cocktail, we can make him forget the past forty-eight hours or so and the next two or three days as well. It isn’t ideal and it certainly isn’t ethical, but it beats letting Captain Doom walk around with the knowledge of your identity in his head.”  
  
“Or putting a bullet in it,” Jason said. “You know, if he came at me with a gun, I wouldn’t think twice about killing him, but I don’t think I could shoot him in cold blood.”  
  
“Glad to hear it,” Anderson said.  
  
“So I pass Ethics one-oh-one?”  
  
“Jason, you’re one of the most ethical people I know,” Anderson said. “Isn’t that what most of our arguments are about? Me looking at the big picture and forgetting that the big picture’s made up of little ones?”  
  
Jason looked away. “Kind of sums it up,” he mumbled. “Get out of my head,” he said. “There’s only room for me in here.”  
  
“If you want to visit your father,” Anderson said, “we can probably arrange something once Galbraith’s done with him. You might find Jay’s reaction to you is a little different once he’s forgotten that you’re G-2.”  
  
“Why?” Jason challenged. “He didn’t care about me when he walked out on Mom. Why should he suddenly care now?”  
  
“He lost his wife and daughter on Urgos,” Anderson said. “Which wasn’t your fault. He’s older. Family becomes important as you get older.”  
  
Jason considered for a moment. “If it turns out he _does_ want some kind of reconciliation, could we use it as a bargaining chip to get him to talk?”  
  
Anderson straightened up in his seat, clearly taken aback. “You’d actually be prepared to do something like that?”  
  
“Might go some little ways toward making up for my monumental screw-up this afternoon,” Jason said with a shrug.  
  
“I don’t want to use you to manipulate your father, Jason,” Anderson said. “If you talk to him, just talk to him without an agenda. Within reason.”  
  
“No classified stuff. I get it,” Jason said. A thought occurred to him. “What’s going to happen to the security staff who overheard me?”  
  
“Colonel Jones has reminded them of their obligations,” Anderson said. “They’re all trustworthy, and Zark already has them on the priority surveillance list as a precaution.”  
  
Jason let his breath out in a huff of air. “I really fouled things up,” he said.  
  
“See?” Anderson said. “I don’t need to haul you over the coals. You’re doing a great job all by yourself.”  
  
“Am I allowed to tell you to shut up?” Jason asked.  
  
“No,” Anderson said. “Rank has to have _some_ privileges.”  
  
Jason snorted in amusement, then sobered. “My father really is a… the word _jerk_ doesn’t seem harsh enough any more.”  
  
“He’s kind of graduated to being a super-villain,” Anderson said. “I mean, there’s the mask, the tech, that freaky biplane… Even the posturing and the monologuing. The scary part is that I think it may run in the family.”  
  
“ _What_?” Jason demanded.  
  
“Grandma Sorcha,” Anderson said. “Lead soprano with the Boston Galactic Opera Company, remember? If she’d gone into science instead of the arts, things could have been grim.”  
  
Jason shuddered. “You’re scaring me.”  
  
“Grandma Sorcha scares all of us,” Anderson said. “And Major Alban thinks I’m a card-carrying member of the Mad Scientist Club,” he added. “When she first started here, she said I was only inches away from setting up Tesla coils in the basement and turning myself into a fly.”  
  
Jason sniggered. “I can totally see that.”  
  
“And then there’s you…”  
  
Jason stopped sniggering. “Now just a second!”  
  
“The symptoms,” Anderson said, “can include thinking that you’re the only one who can ever be right in a situation, extended monologues, weird wardrobe choices and maniacal laughter, _especially_ during thunderstorms.”  
  
“I’ll admit to the first one, to a degree, but I think I’m fairly safe from the rest,” Jason said. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, however.”  
  
“Good to know. Seriously, though, if you want to read Jay’s file, I’ll give you access. I think you deserve to know about your father. He was one of our best before it all went wrong.”  
  
“From what I understand, he never let his conscience get in the way of a mission,” Jason recalled.  
  
“You two would have clashed over that,” Anderson said.  
  
“Maybe some other time,” Jason said. “James Anderson might have contributed half of my DNA, but he was never really my father. I’ve got a family, and they’re probably waiting for me to drive them to the Snack J for dinner.”  
  
“Then you’d better not keep them waiting any longer, Jason.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“If you ever want to talk...” Anderson let the invitation hang.  
  
“I know. Let me get my head around it. I’m sure I’ll come up with questions. For now though, I think I hear Jill’s chicken parmigiana calling me.”  
  
“Go on then,” Anderson said.  
  
Jason stood up and transformed his uniform back to its civilian mode, then walked out without any further discourse.  
  
Outside, Anderson heard the voices of Mark, Princess, Keyop and Tiny raised in greeting and concern, then the sounds faded as the five members of G-Force departed for the elevator lobby.  
  
David Anderson slumped in his seat, exhausted, then decided that sitting was altogether too much effort and lay down on the sofa, facing the window. He heard another familiar tread approaching but didn’t move. “President Kane was furious,” he said. “I thought he was going to fire me. I was almost hoping he would.”  
  
Lieutenant Colonel Jones bent down and handed her Chief of Staff a cup of tea. “ _Per ardua ad astra_ , I think is what they say in the Air Force.” Anderson budged up and moved his feet so Jones could sit at the end of the sofa.  
  
“ _Through adversity to the stars_?” Anderson quoted. “Al, I’ve already got enough of that _ardua_ shit to take me half way to Andromeda.”  
  
Jones cradled her own tea mug in both hands. “Are you going to talk to your brother?” she asked.  
  
“I guess I’ll have to at some point,” Anderson said.  
  
“It isn’t as though you have to rush into it,” Jones said. “He isn’t going anywhere.”  
  
“We hope,” Anderson qualified grimly.  
  
“I thought _I_ was supposed to be the pessimist in this comedy routine,” Jones said.  
  
“I think I may need something stronger than tea,” Anderson said.  
  
“Normally, I’d suggest Curtin’s at this point but I doubt we’d get much of a welcome there,” Jones said.   
  
“I should probably call the owners and apologise,” Anderson said.  
  
“I already did,” Jones said. “They were very understanding but I got the impression they’d really rather not see us again for a while. Killing people in the middle of service is apparently considered bad form, but Shay says the publicity has them booked solid for the next three months, so it can’t be all bad. Amano’s is always open if you want to go for a drink.”  
  
Anderson dug in his pocket for a key and tossed it to Jones, who caught it easily in one hand. “Bottom right hand desk drawer,” Anderson directed.  
  
Jones put her tea mug down on the coffee table and crossed the office to unlock the drawer in question. “Surely you’re not going to put this in your tea?” she said, brandishing the bottle that she found therein.  
  
“As I reminded Jason a minute or so ago, rank has its privileges,” Anderson said.  
  
“No, David. This is seventeen-year-old Glenturret. You do _not_ adulterate it by putting it in tea. That’s what Johnnie Walker Black is for.”  
  
“There should be a couple of glasses in there somewhere,” Anderson said, waving a vague hand in the direction of his desk.  
  
There was a clink of glass against glass. “How long since these were washed?” Jones demanded. “Honestly! Some days I could swear you were raised by wolves!”  
  
Anderson let his breath out in a long sigh and listened to the tap of Jones’ heels against the floor as she left the office in search of clean glassware. It had, he decided, been a hell of a day. Still, he’d managed to survive. The non-aggression pact with Urgos had been signed. Captain Doom’s space piracy operation had been crippled, cutting off a valuable line of supply for Zoltar. Agent S-9 was in custody. A sleeper cell of Spectran agents had been eradicated. Most significantly on a personal level, Jason finally knew who his father was and said father had at last been captured.  
  
The only fly in the ointment was that James wouldn’t retain the memory of having been finally and thoroughly trounced by his younger brother.  
  
Oh well. You couldn’t have everything.  
  


 

_Fin._

 


End file.
